


Our Monuments Shall Be The Maws of Kites

by captainjackspearow



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background pairings in notes, Blood and some Mild Gore but not enough to warrant "Graphic", Canonical Child Abuse, Character Death warning is for CF chapter 17, Crimson Flower, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Just gals being pals working through shared trauma together.... extremely slowly, Medical Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-canon through post-canon, Slow Burn, This was written before the Jeritza patch so pour one out for what we could have had
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainjackspearow/pseuds/captainjackspearow
Summary: "'To be honest, I think I ought to be asking you that question.'Because therein lies the issue. How could she? How could Lysithea stand to sit here, to take tea with the source of every waking horror, every nightmare inflicted upon her?  To work with – work for – someone under the thumb of the monsters responsible, who might as well be one of them?To wake up every morning and stare at the broken phantom of what her aggregated suffering produced?If she were Lysithea, she’d have taken the dying shot at her in Derdriu."***The Agarthans leave a trail of corpses in their wake, leave the shells of the living behind to pick up the pieces of their broken world, and like a twin-headed carrion bird, they needle at both.Edelgard/Lysithea, enemies to friends to something more. From the experiments, to separate sides of the war, to the same side of what becomes a different one altogether.A story about grief, acceptance, and about learning to make peace with the living, as you bury the dead.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 43
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to tumblr user adrestianknight, for encouraging my bullshit and also helping me edit what turned into this sprawling monstrosity.
> 
> Edit (5.24.20): EXTRA thank you to adrestianknight further for commissioning the absolutely *stellar* art at the end of this fic. Painting by Alice (@itsbabypears on twitter), they did a phenomenal job, please go check their other work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 3.9.20 - fixed my dyslexic ass's mistaken spelling of Hrym that I meant to deal with ages ago

_ If charnel houses and our graves must send _

_ Those that we bury back, our monuments _

_ Shall be the maws of kites. _

_ Macbeth (3.4.74-76) _

_ As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods. _

_ They kill us for their sport. _

_ King Lear (4.1.41-42). _

***

They must have forgotten them all down here.

They must have forgotten them all down here, when they locked them away to stop them from getting murdered in their sleep by awful, horrible people, for there was trouble in the Kingdom, after all, or so her aunt claimed when she finally, _finally, _fetched her back home, terrible trouble, the whole royal family cut down in a single strike.

She shivers.

That can be the only explanation, can it not? Her father is-

-he was ill. He must have been, to be so cold to see her when she returned, after she was so callously stolen away by her mother’s traitorous brother. To have just let the Prime Minister treat them like-

-_ we’re prisoners, we’re prisoners, we’re prisoners, we’re prisoners- _

Someone screams, her sister ceases her rambling, her head burns from slamming it into the stonework. That was Ionius. Why is he screaming? He’s the eldest, he can’t be-

-he won’t make them-

-mother would never allow-

-why didn’t he _ stop them, father why didn’t you- _

Something bites at her ankle, and she shrieks, startled out of her shock by the sudden sharpness of the teeth, and the sound echoes through the cold stone of Enbarr’s dungeons as a rat skitters across the floor, squeezing between wrought iron bars that she can barely fit a wrist through.

She’s already tried.

Heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, and she curls into the shadows of the cell, away from the rat, away from the sound, away from the bearer of the boots that bring freedom or death, because she does not want to see another _ person. _ Not after last time.

There’s more than one of them. She can tell, because they are having an argument.

Edelgard knows she must listen, because words and conspiracies often mean life or death, Hubert has told her this often, but-

She’s nine. And Ionius has stopped screaming. And she cannot stop _ crying. _

_ -I’m starting to wonder if all your earlier successes were flukes, Thales- _

_ I assure you, von Aegir, they most certainly were not. Need I remind you of your own personal example to prove my point? _

She recognizes the second voice, too – not just the prime minister, but also-

_ That was- _

_ A different circumstance, indeed. But my point stands – some take to it more naturally than others, and we’ve put multiple crests in the body before, even starting from nothing. But he had eleven, and we’ve got ten. So get back to work. _

-her _ uncle_.

Who waves a bloody, gloved hand, with the nonchalance of a poor actor in a terrible performance as the Prime Minister carries on like a broken record, hurrying after him down the hall past her, and her brothers and sisters shout from their cells, but she cannot hear the words, because her heart breaks in half at the sight of Marquis von Vestra carrying the naked, broken body of her brother – _ Ionius – _like it was some fucking inconvenience.

Death, then.

It would spell death for them all.

***

House Ordelia is empty. They say it’s been like this since the fighting started.

Lysithea is tired of people going missing, though.

It’s raining, today. She wishes it were sunny. She wishes she could go out and read in the garden with her sister, wander off into the woods by the wall somewhere and act out the voices to make her smile again like last week. The others don’t have the time for reading, or worse, they treat her like such a child about it, like she doesn’t know what’s going on.

She wishes her sister wasn’t-

She’s not stupid. She’s little, she’s still little, she _knows_ she is, but she’s not stupid. She knows there was a fight, she knows they’re part of the Empire now, not the Alliance, and she _ hates _it, she hates the stupid Empire mages who she has to see in the house all the time, she hates not seeing her cousins and her aunt and everyone else who they’ve replaced, she hates them for taking her siblings away from her, and she knows it’s them because-

-she saw her parents’ eyes when they told her off for yelling about it.

This is stupid.

The Empire is stupid. She never did anything wrong.

She just wants to read her book, wants to have one dinner without staring at all the empty chairs, without her father trying not to cry for some reason that he won’t explain despite the fact that she _ asks _.

They’re probably worried she’ll run away or something.

(She already thought about it. The creepy mages have the whole estate on lockdown. She got as far as the far wall before she saw them and got cold feet, crawled back through the dirt. No point in getting herself killed. What would her mother think, if they brought her the body, after everything?)

***

She can see the others, now. They’ve moved her somewhere else, somewhere deeper within the tunnels, teeming with swarms of rats, but she’s never been allowed down here even before all of this, so how could she possibly know where?

Four. Four out of eleven. Two older. One younger. Her.

Her skin _ burns, _every inch of it aflame as she writhes on the cold stone, brushing matted hair of something horrible with bare feet, bitterly coarse and unwashed. A corpse? A rat?

It moans.

She can’t even summon the strength to weakly jerk away, she cannot feel her legs beyond the pain of nerves set alight, from what they did to her this time, and worst of all, she cannot even tell whose voice it is.

Another voice, familiar, a soft gasp from the hall. A person?

A _young boy. _Like a ghost. Like- 

She gingerly turns her head, tilting her face back just enough to get a better glimpse, and oh, it’s-

But the exertion combined with sudden shock proves too much, and she vomits, blood against iron bars. The pain of the motion is too much - her whole body spasms, nerves _ burning - _ and her vision goes red, and she almost wants to cry from that alone, because he’ll certainly be gone when her eyes reopen, like all the others-

But she blinks, and the boy remains.

His dark clothes are now spattered in her blood, and she almost smiles at how scandalized he looks at the impropriety of the circumstances.

_ You haunt me, Hubert. _

Her voice is hoarse, shaky, unsteady from what must now be months of disuse following weeks of screaming, of sobbing, of teetering back and forth between the two. 

She’s never heard his own so unsteady. _ Lady Edelgard, this is- I must, I cannot, I swear to you, I will find a way to make this right- _

_ You cannot be real, how could you even get down here, you’re not supposed to know- _

_ -my father is a traitor. _

He stares at her with cold eyes, flickering between the moaning figure on the ground and her sprawled form.

_ Your father is a monster. _

_ I won’t deny it. _ Is he crying? _ I came to get you out of here. _

Will he carry her corpse out of here like Ionius, then? They will never make it out of this place alive, she doesn’t know where they are, she doesn’t know if she can trust him, if he’s still Hubert or something new and horrible, like that woman who wore her mother’s face-

_ We can. We can use secrets. If we are uncertain. Old ones, that they won’t know. You know the most of mine out of anyone. _

She looks up, bleary eyed, at the boy trying with poorly-concealed desperation to pick the cell lock, and whispers, _ Pegasus. _

He loves them. He’s terrified of heights.

Hubert bites his lip and looks back to the lockpicks. Good. He knows what she meant.

_ Why is he- _

_ -I don’t care why. But he would not let me go after you when- _

And there is a silent hand on Hubert’s shoulder, large and imposing, pinning him in place, and all plans of escape are dashed to little shredded pieces.

She doesn’t know if he lived to see the daylight again, whether Marquis von Vestra killed him down here or not. But she sees his petrified face, blanched even for Hubert, among the ghostly faces that haunt her hazy half-waking moments.

His barely bit-back sound of terror joins the choir of Hresvelgs’ - alive and dead – in the screams beneath Enbarr.

***

They are draining her blood.

Lysithea cries. She screams, she howls, she rages until her voice begins to crack, but every word, every plea, every vindictive curse word that the older boy from House Hrym staying over last summer taught her falls on uncaring ears.

They will not _ answer _her, not a question about the horrible lancets they have stuck in her arm or the terrible burning or her younger sister or her brothers or her cousins or her auntie or-

_ I am the only one _ ** _left_ ** _ , you cannot- you will- my parents will- _

But the stupid creepy mages with their awful tubes and knives keep ignoring her, so she bites the one working on her arm.

She comes to with another splitting headache and the sensation like she’s going to vomit, only instead of being just located to her stomach, it’s crawling through all her veins like her brain is somehow everywhere at once, but all hooked up wrong, and she weakly tries to turn her head-

-only to find it firmly restrained to the table.

Lysithea panics.

She is going to die here. She is going to _ die _ here, they all died here, why did they all die here, did the boy from House Hrym die here too, is that why they aren’t allowed to talk about him at the dinner table-

If she squirms enough, she can just-

Something shifts uncomfortably, and there’s an awful pinching in her left arm, just above her elbow, and goddess, _ there are still needles in there. _

And her eyes flicker over towards where her arm would be, if she could lift it into view, and-

A horrible contraption shudders, some terrible clockwork machine, alive as if by magic, with two large glass cylinders full of a dark, almost blue liquid. Or is it teal, or purple? She cannot tell, her eyes are hazy, but it is churning within the casks, two different colors, and the machine, it drips whatever strange poison this is into more tubes, and they descend, and then Lysithea truly cannot breathe-

-they are poisoning them, they are poisoning them all, that’s why her whole body feels like it’s being eaten from the inside out, they’re draining her blood and replacing it with _ poison. _

The goddess is no arbiter of souls, Lysithea decides.

She is seven, and is going to die on a table, and her parents could not-

-the only people who _ could _have saved her family from the Empire did nothing, she determines. What of the Alliance?

There was no help for the others, she realizes. And they were younger than seven.

It is a brutal, irrational world.

***

Her hair is changed, white like the face of her father the last time she saw him, what feels like a year ago, suddenly colorless in an instant.

_ Her hair has changed, blanched white like the skin of the corpses they’d dragged out of the bowels of Enbarr, like the rats eating away at them all as they slept, as they lay dying, as they lay dead. _

She bears a minor crest of Charon, a major crest of Gloucester. House Ordelia has no crest of its own, nor use for either.

_ She bears a crest of flames, a crest of hope. _

They thank her for her service to the Empire.

_ They tell her she’s the Empire’s great, last dream. _

She never asked for any of this, she’d rather _ die _ than serve Adrestia, all she wants them to do is _ leave. _

_ She sees the crumbling, rotting foundations beneath the castle, and longs to burn it all to cinders. _


	2. Chapter 2

Claude von Riegan is, above all…

…actually not quite as bad as she thought he’d be, based on his boisterous first impression.

They’d both started the same year, after all, and despite the fact that neither had much in common at first glance, it was quite clear that both were outsiders among the students of Garreg Mach, even among their other classmates from the Alliance.

Well, Lysithea knew ahead of time that she was going to be an oddity among her peers, and she, quite frankly, _ doesn’t care. _

She’s young, she doesn’t have time for frivolous socializing, _ thank you very much Lorenz, _ and the idea of trying to spend any time fostering any sort of formal social alliance is pointless for reasons she isn’t going to bother explaining to her classmates. Not to mention international relationships. Certainly, she’ll make the effort to be _ polite, _ if she really must, in a select few cases, since Annette really hasn’t done anything wrong, but she refuses to sit through one more lecture on the propriety of greeting _ Ferdinand von Aegir of all people _.

And no, for all Lorenz’s posturing, her father really _ won’t _ hold it against her. After everything, she’s entitled to be brusque when it’s _ their _ fault for not leaving her alone _ . _

Let the others all think she’s stuck up and immature, if they want. It suits her just fine. She’s simply got far more important things to do with her time, and far better ways to secure her parents’ future.

She knows Claude sometimes thinks the same of her, or at least did, to an extent, but he doesn’t judge her for all of it in the same way that Lorenz does. She’d caught him skipping chapel one day while she was doing the same, sneaking away towards the dormitories to pick up a couple textbooks that she’d been close to cracking that week. Turns out neither of them held the goddess in particularly high esteem.

They’d made a habit of ditching chapel together whenever they could get away with it, after that.

Claude, she discovers, had always been off-put by all the noble posturing as well, though he’d never outright admit it. She supposes it makes sense for the new Heir Riegan, given the stir his grandfather’s sudden claim caused among some of the larger Alliance families. He’s not noble enough for people like Lorenz, but his birthright – and crest, she notes, in particular, for that’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it – makes him too unapproachable for people like Leonie and Raphael.

He’s open-minded, he’s incredibly intelligent, and equally infuriating when she’s trying to actually _ study. _

It’s on one of these little excursions that it happens – the knights have been keeping a stricter watch on the dormitories during chapel after several students were caught sneaking off for _ other _ activities, which, granted, this was _ nothing _ of that sort, but neither wanted to have to explain any sort of rule infraction.

Claude, thankfully, is never without at least three backup plans as far as she can tell, and he leads her off towards the classrooms.

Smart. Technically, the professors weren’t supposed to be here either, and worse case they could claim to have forgotten something important.

The courtyard should have been deserted at this hour.

Two students walk towards the Black Eagles classroom, almost certainly nobility from the airs they carry, a tall boy with dark hair who turns to stare at them, and a girl about her height with-

There is a pit in her stomach that forms.

Her hair is neatly done back with two tiny violet ribbons to keep it from falling into her face, which is turned away, towards the classroom that she hurriedly marches towards.

But it is the same uncanny, unnatural white as her own, like this too was taken from her somehow.

Lysithea turns away, and promptly marches ahead into their own room, not waiting for Claude to catch up. She can hear his nervous laughter behind her, a quick greeting, before he follows suit.

He shrugs sheepishly. _ Sorry. Edelgard’s the Crown Princess and all that. You know how it is. _

The pit in her stomach threatens to boil over, because she _ does _know how it is, and she wants to tear those stupid ribbons out of the girl’s hair and choke her with them, even though realistically she knows it’s-

-it’s probably not her fault. But the hatred still lingers, like a quiet storm.

The voices of the pair carry through the stone hall, even hushed as they are.

_ Who was that? _

_ Just von Riegan. _

The girl – _ Edelgard _ – hums softly in acknowledgement, and Lysithea cannot stop shaking. 

Claude perches himself atop one of the desks, knees tucked beneath elbows, and stares at the door to at least give her some semblance of privacy.

_ You don’t like the Empire much. _

She spits her response with the venom she’s used to using when the others address her in the stairwells, when she really just wants to be left alone. _What gave it away, Claude?_ _If you couldn’t figure it out before now, then you’re really quite a bit less intelligent than I’d been led to believe._

_ I’m assuming it’s because of the incident with House- _

-_ If you- _ Lysithea pauses, choosing her words carefully. _ If you finish that sentence, so help me von Riegan, Future Alliance Leader or not, there are some things that are none of your business, and I won’t- _

_ Hey- _

Claude slides off the table and walks up to her, slowly, reaching out for the books she hadn’t realized she’s still clutching with a death-grip. She lets him take them, lets him gingerly set them aside, lets him reach forward and pull her into an extremely tentative and somewhat awkward but entirely heartfelt hug-

_ I know what happened. You don’t have to tell me anything, and I won’t press you for details. My grandfather put me through a refresher on Alliance history before sending me here, and that was pretty relevant, so… the subject came up. _

Lysithea buries her forehead in his uniform.

_ Look, I’m so fucking sorry, Lysithea. And for what it’s worth, he actually didn’t give me all the details. I’m not even certain your parents gave him them all, either. It sounded pretty gruesome. _

Her voice is muffled by fabric. _ They didn’t. _

_ So, is that why you and Lorenz don’t get along, either? _

_ Lorenz and I don’t get along because he can’t be bothered to apply himself to things that actually matter. _

_ But you’re not close. _

_ Why would we be? _

_ Well, you’ve got a major crest of Gloucester. But, you know, his family is nuts enough about that sort of thing to record births of crest-holders and the like, and there’s no mention of any sort of relation within the past… oh… I don’t know how long. _

If she doesn’t say anything, he’ll spill this to everyone, she’ll- she has to-

_ Well, when are you going to admit to the others that you’re Almyran, huh? _

Claude blanches.

_ Oh, come on! You’ve got just as much of an issue fitting in with Raphael as the other nobles, so the raised outside of a noble house thing is a bunch of garbage, you practically always ditch chapel, and you’re always so careful to present yourself as someone who knows _ ** _everything_ ** _ about Fodlan. _

_ Listen, Lysithea, I wasn’t- _

And now she feels awful, because Claude’s been nice, other than extremely fucking nosy, which he’s always been, but Claude is Claude and he’s nothing if not reliable.

_ I’m. You took me off guard. Look, I’ve known for a while, I just never said anything, and I know you’ve known about – _ she gestures wildly with her casting hand, conjuring an image of her crest – _ probably for a bit too. I won’t say anything if you don’t. _

Claude nods, nervously, eyes flickering still to the door, towards the bell tower in the distance through the classroom window.

_ It’ll be our secret. _

***

Ferdinand von Aegir is truly proof that the church has been lying to them for all these years.

He’s insufferable, he’s annoying, and she cannot stand the fact that she is required by propriety to play nice when what she’s wanted to do for the past five or so years has been to knock him into the dirt and throttle him with her bare hands until the light leaves his eyes.

The one thing that helps her at least maintain civility is the knowledge that Duke Aegir almost certainly isn’t capable of feeling human emotions like empathy and grief, so the loss of his son probably wouldn’t even serve as adequate retribution.

Regardless of the logic of it all, this still doesn’t help when she has to listen to him try to bait her as they spar on the training grounds.

_ Edelgard! Come at me again, for I was watching your performance earlier and I feel as if I could offer perhaps- _

She smacks him with the blunt end of the training axe in the side of the face, and the match is on.

It’s fine, she’s winning, she can drown out the ceaseless yammering amidst the conversation of the other students, it’s not as if she’s inexperienced on the field – she’s been training for battle since she took up Ionius’ heavy mantle.

Hubert tells Ferdinand to lay off the heckling, which she appreciates, because she doesn’t have the patience to figure out how to phrase it politely today, and Hubert has the luxury to be afforded a certain measure of brusqueness when dealing with others.

The others are doing well, for the most part, at least – the Brigid Princess, _ Petra _, is quite the swordswoman, and the Bergliez boy makes up for his lack of formal training with enthusiasm. The first-years from the Kingdom – those who even showed up to the optional training session – are still a complete mess, half of them refusing to speak to the others, while the Alliance students are the source of most of the shouting.

It’s the Gloucester boy again. Of course it is. And he’s decided to make some comment to whatever girl he happens to be partnered with, and she must be the one yelling-

Edelgard freezes.

Ferdinand clocks her in the shoulder with the axe, hard enough to knock her back a couple of feet. She can distantly feel herself stumble, and then sit.

The white-haired girl is young, small, and her eyes burn with a bitter anger as her screams echo through the enclosed space. Is she screaming? Is it truly so loud in here?

A gloved hand reaches for her own, and Hubert gently pulls her to her feet as Ferdinand’s bristling pride is overshadowed with stupidly palpable concern.

_ Edelgard, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost! _

Has she? Is she just seeing things again?

The girl is so small, she could almost be-

Hubert coughs, and she shakes her head. From the other side of the training grounds, a distinctly unfamiliar voice continues to yell about having too much to do, too little time, to waste it on _ him, _until Seteth asks the pair to quiet down.

_ Lady Edelgard, shall I see you to the infirmary? _

_ Are you truly all right, Edelgard? I apologize, I did not realize you were so distracted. _

_ Ferdinand, enough. I’ll be fine. Hubert, that will be unnecessary, but- _

_ -at least let me see you to your quarters, then, if you’re feeling faint. _

It’s an unspoken code between them, one of many at this point, and she nods, lets him steer her towards the dormitories, lets him make the requisite excuses, lets him speak first as they pass through the gardens.

_ She’s a prodigy of House Ordelia. Or rather, the eldest and sole heir, following the incident with House Hrym’s defection. _

Not a ghost, then, at least. Just another angry girl, who happens to bear unfortunate similarities in mannerism and hair color to the restless dead and vengeful dying.

_ Uncle was often in Hrym afterwards, was he not? _

_ It was ceded to him after the House collapsed. _

She pauses.

_ I’ll bring tea tonight, shall I? _

_ I would appreciate it. _

_ Please try to get some sleep. I’d hate to see von Aegir’s ego further fed by mere circumstance. _

***

Claude’s a good friend, and he covers for her when she needs it – mostly to be certain that the others don’t find out how much of an issue her illness can actually _ be, _because she just doesn’t want to be bothered dealing with the reactions of her peers – and she has Seteth for when she actually needs to swap chore assignments due to symptoms flaring up, since her father so kindly informed the administration that she has “a lingering chronic condition due to years of-”

Oh, how did he put it? It doesn’t matter. It was probably something ridiculously close to the truth but off the mark, like “torture.”

The point is, she’d rather just get it over with and die now than be thought of as someone like Hilda, who just begs off work at the slightest provocation, only it’s really looking like _ that’s her choice, _ because the other student on duty for the library is just _ not here. _

And absolute genius that she is, she thought she could manage, because she was feeling _ fine _today! Until she spent an hour hauling books around, and the dust got in her lungs on top of the muscle strain, and now she’s stuck leaning against a shelf in an absolute disaster of a disorganized mess, trying not to cough any more blood where it will leave stains.

_ Lysithea? Are you all right? You don’t look well. _

She supposes she can add “capable of basic observational skills” to the future emperor’s resume.

But she hauls herself to her feet, shakily brushing her skirts off. _ I’m fine. Really. Just not accustomed to so much manual labor. _

Edelgard looks around, confused. _ Why were you cleaning the library all by yourself? _

_ The other student assigned wasn’t feeling well, so just me. I figured I could just dust the shelves or something, but I got a little carried away. _

_ Well, maybe you should think things through a little more next time. Surely you can tell how much physical strength a job is going to require before you begin. _

_ I can do without the condescension, thanks. After all, I’m the only one who has to deal with the fact that I’ve worn myself out. _

Edelgard flinches. _ No, I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t- that is- you’re rumored to be quite the prodigy, and I’ve only said that you should take care of yourself. Especially considering- _

If looks could kill, the Adrestian Empire would be bereft an heir._ Considering what? _

_ Nothing. Never mind. _

There’s a beat as Edelgard shifts, fiddling with a stray stack of books that Lysithea left on one of the study tables, straightening them pointlessly.

_ How about you return to your quarters? I’ll finish cleaning up in here. _

Head down, Lysithea marches over and picks up the top couple books from the stack Edelgard is halfheartedly arranging. The idea of having to shirk the remainder of this work onto _ her _ of all people is inconceivable. _ That’s ridiculous. I want to finish what I’ve started. _

_ I don’t mind, really. Please don’t make me repeat myself. _

_ Look, no. _She’ll get it done somehow. The last thing she needs is Edelgard thinking she’s weak. 

_ At least let me help you finish this. _

The pair of them awkwardly shuffle around the library, cleaning up Lysithea’s mess. Books are re-shelved in relative silence, in record time, and if neither of them draw any attention to how Lysithea leans on the backs of chairs as she shakily arranges tomes, then it’s a small blessing.

Edelgard, to her credit, is at least diligent, has clearly studied enough to know where the books ought to all go, and isn’t too proud to forego Lysithea’s instructions on where she’s left the piles, what ought to be done with each.

_ What were you doing in the library, anyway? _

Edelgard pauses, pulling a couple books aside as they finish up the last few stacks. 

_ I came looking for a bit of light reading, actually. _

Lysithea frowns. _ You don’t really seem the type to be bothered with something like that. _

_ It was the suggestion of a friend. I thought perhaps it might prove to- well, stories aren’t exactly something I spend much time with anymore. I haven’t read for pleasure in quite a while. It was a bit of a silly idea. _

_ Forgive me, but I can hardly imagine you spending time on something like that. _

_ What about you, Lysithea? I know you don’t waste much time on frivolities. _

_ Like you said, I have little time to waste. _

_ As do I. _

_ You couldn’t possibly understand. But if you really believe your time isn’t worth wasting, then why bother? And while I truly appreciate your helping me, why bother with that? _

Edelgard purses her lips, staring. Lysithea wishes she’d stop, quite honestly.

_ I wasn’t aware that helping other people ought to be considered a waste of time. And, quite frankly, I don’t owe you an explanation for my reasoning, but if you must know, I thought it might help me sleep better. _

_ Then just read something you used to like, and be done with it. _

_ I never had much time for reading, once I came into my role. And before that, what little time I dedicated to it was mostly in the company of my family. One of my sisters used to… well. _

Edelgard pauses, staring pointedly towards the door. _ You don’t really want to hear about all of that. I should let you rest- _

_ Edelgard, wait. _The words ring in her ears, like she could have said them herself, and- 

_ -I’ll ask Dorothea, or better yet, Bernadetta, she’s an avid bookworm, spends far too much time closed off in her room- _

Lysithea cuts her off mid-sentence with a still-shaky hand on the shoulder.

_ I’m sorry. Thank you for the help. You really didn’t have to. _

***

Lysithea pockets a recent history of Adrestia on her way out, an officially approved genealogy, detailing the family of Emperor Ionius IX von Hresvelg, or rather, their deaths – ten royal children. Their names and lives are recorded only in brief, but brief too is the short span of years in which they seem to have all died, all within several years of the culmination of her own family’s undoing.

All of these deaths are attributed to plague.

The plague, the book claims in a footnote, ripped through the Empire, and while it took demoralizing root among the royal children of Enbarr, the villages were not without incident. “Children were markedly vulnerable,” it reads.

Never mind the fact that the last three seem to have all died at once.

Children were markedly vulnerable.

She curls up in bed the rest of the day.

_ Edelgard sees a spatter of blood on a stray page, a smear of it on a tightly clenched fist, a stain of it unnoticed and still wet on a bottom lip, and that night asks Jeritza if the young girl from House Ordelia always had hair that color. _

_ He doesn’t remember. But he can’t even remember his own name, what it once was, half of the time. _

_ Her uncle did a number on him, too. _

_ If it’s true, though, then how many? How many were there, how many Enbarrs, for a single other- _

_ The professor has the church’s knife to her throat, she has a darker blade to her own, and the goddess’s dual hands of time press against her the longer she waits- _

_ -the idea that she’s not alone isn’t something she can afford to indulge in, because thinking about it is a dangerous path that leads to having a perspective on the matter. _

_ She simply cannot consider it. She doesn’t have the luxury to allow herself to feel sentimental. _

_ She will don Ionius’ feathered cape, sign her own father’s death warrant, and let the chips fall where they may. _

***

Lysithea isn’t quite certain how she didn’t see this coming. Perhaps if she’d paid more attention to her surroundings, and less to her single-minded pursuit of individual betterment, or at least been given some external incentive to pay attention to political goings-on other than “do this for the church under punishment of death.”

Edelgard, it turns out, was the Flame Emperor, and claims to have been orchestrating a portion of all the previous chaos, following her attack on Garreg Mach and declaration of war against the Church of Fodlan. Dimitri, unconvinced that she hasn’t manipulated every act of evil dating back to the _ Tragedy of Fucking Duscur, _ is harboring the Church’s officers, formally allying the Kingdom of Faerghus with Rhea. Claude, the only one with any sense, is opting to stay out of the conflict altogether, though Lysithea knows he’s spread too thin as it is, and Claude’s delicately-maintained semblance of neutrality between the Alliance Houses is just that – _delicate. _

(House Ordelia is loyal to the Empire, for they will never make that mistake twice, as long as it still stands – they haven’t a choice – but _ she’s _ loyal to _ Claude, _and will help him pull the Alliance’s head out of whatever hole Lorenz’s father keeps trying to cram it into).

She’s spent little time in the Aquatic Capital before this, and the war leaves scant time to enjoy the canals and streets of Derdriu, to wander the seaside pastry shops, to smell the warm sea breeze, but, well. That’s life, isn’t it?

Ordelia doesn’t have a place among the five of the Roundtable, her father’s voting rights were revoked after they helped Hrym, and Claude can’t formally reinstate her without tipping the balance among the rest, not while they’re currently so reliant on Daphnel for aid. They both know a meaningless gesture isn’t worth it, when he’s open to whatever advice she has to give anyway, and she doesn’t need a formal position. Besides, it won’t be of much use to House Ordelia.

There won’t be a House Ordelia in five years, give or take.

So Lysithea does what she can, working with Hilda, who’s grown remarkably competent in distributing supplies and troops, stretching resources that have grown far too thin, and helps Claude play the Empire and Kingdom off of each other, the loyalists and rebels alike.

But she’s read the pamphlets that have wormed their way through Derdriu’s winding, cobbled streets, done the research behind the honeyed, cogent words.

Edelgard, she decides, has a point, independent of her personal feelings on crests, which are largely negative, and on Edelgard and the Empire, which are largely the same - _ exceedingly _negative.

They’ve seen enough evidence, all of them, in their school days alone, to suggest the Church had a hand in the injuries of students within the Holy Tomb, _ before _ the attack on the monastery, _ before _ even touching the accusations levied against them within Edelgard’s series of papers regarding historical revisionism and the worship of crests. She heard what happened to Sylvain’s brother, before the Church tamped down on the story, to Ashe, forced to murder his father under false pretenses, to all the others who left Dimitri’s side and joined the rebellion. A couple of them saw the students fleeing the tomb, burn-scarred and screaming.

Edelgard was among the wounded.

Claude knows this too, but he doesn’t want people to die.

They spoke about it, once, in the middle of the night, over battle plans and a flaky Almyran pastry with a great deal of honey. It’d been hours upon hours of reviewing defensive plans for Derdriu, Hilda had already turned in for the evening, having spent all day in diplomatic negotiations to prepare for the reinforcements from Fodlan’s Locket.

And Claude turned to Lysithea, mouth full of pastry, green eyes glazed over from lack of sleep, and asked her what she’d do if Derdriu falls.

_ The whole point of us staying up this late is to make sure that doesn’t happen, Claude. _

_ No, look, Lysithea. Contingency plans, alright? Remember? We’ve got to have, like- _ Claude takes another bite, his voice again muffled, _ at least three. ‘S why I didn’t get us into this whole mess properly, because that. That would bind you all to one side, right? Win or lose. _

_ What are you talking about? _

_ Look, I just want you to make your own choice, that’s all. Stay alive. Surrender if you can, don’t fight to the death, and, you know, if Edelgard does stand victorious at Derdriu, consider helping her out? _

_ Claude, have you slept, like, at all? _

_ No, I’m serious. If she can take me down, then the Church? With you at her side? And maybe some of the others? Probably no obstacle. And it’s frankly better than dying in the dirt here. _

_ You’ve thought about this a bit, haven’t you? _

_ What can I say? I’m a responsible leader. I love my friends. _

_ How many of us have you asked this of? _

_ One or two. Maybe a couple. Maybe all who I thought would consider it. Hilda, definitely. But I’m not… I actually worry that she won’t listen. War is… it seems to throw people off, watching people get hurt. _

_ So, what’s contingency plan number three, Claude? Because this one still ends with you dying, and I’m not really a fan of that. _

Claude grins, a sleepy smile, meant to appease. _ Maybe we won’t even need it! _

He has one, she’s certain. But there’s an unease in his eyes all the same, an uncertainty.

It’s a gamble, of sorts, then.

The problem is, king's gambits require sacrifices, and it's a lot harder when the tactician is also a pawn.

***

Derdriu is in sight, and they are blessedly close to closing the door on one front in this war.

Claude’s brought Almyran support, which is intriguing, but not ideal in terms of numbers. Luckily for them both, however (and Edelgard wonders if this was his intention), it means that they don’t have to send the majority of the army through the central city. Instead, she directs the strike force to proceed over the advancing ships towards the two commanders, so that she and Sylvain can seize the gates themselves on wyvernback to stay abreast of, well…

There are a couple of familiar faces among the enemy soldiers.

They’d managed to stay out of the way of their former classmates to this point, dodging arrows to cut off the Hero of Daphnel where she stood, forcing a terrified Ignatz to retreat, but Derdriu is well-guarded, and Hilda stands in the center of it, impeccably dressed, wielding a viciously spiked axe that could rival Amyr for size like it weighs nothing. Fodlan’s Locket has no need of Freikugel, when the real threat lies now in Derdriu.

This is Claude picking a side, she thinks.

But Hilda stands in the city square, holding command of the canals that lead to choke points, behind countless other soldiers prepared to hold off an army for the sake of the civilians within.

The front lines boast an entirely different face altogether.

Lysithea is twenty, now, clutching a staff and staring down an army with an expression of blank determination, pale eyes dead-set and full of fire, and Edelgard has never more strongly hated what the Agarthans did to her, what it meant she might have to be willing to do.

***

The Adrestian army does not stand their ground and fight her.

Instead, they run, bolting for the ships.

Edelgard and Sylvain take flight, quickly leaving her range, and the cavalry races on ahead, but the foot soldiers scurry rather than-

(What are they doing? Claude, what are they doing? What are you doing?)

War leaves no time to ponder hypotheticals. The battlefield is not the place to dwell on the intentions of an invading army, when you and a handful of good people stand between them and their victory.

She will not let them reach Nader, she will not let them cut off the chain of reinforcements, _ she will not let another breach the gates of Derdriu, _and she runs with all the force she can muster, and fires off a blast at the first person she can reach-

A flash of blue hair. She doesn’t remember his name. He’s ushering the others along faster, yelling something she can’t hear above the gasping of her breath. She gets one casting off.

Doesn’t even have time to open her mouth for the second incantation before he halts in his traces and decks her in the face with a handful of sharp metal, slamming her into the nearby wall of a building hard enough to crack bone.

Her legs aren’t listening to her. He’s gasping for air. There’s blood all over the cobblestones of the docks, and Lysithea’s certain some of it must be his.

The man’s eyes flicker upwards nervously as he kneels, keeled over, hailing somebody, and she can’t bear to raise her head to follow the path of them.

She tries to move backwards, to inch towards Hilda, her battalion, and winces at the sting of it. He flinches, and she glares.

_ If you’re going to kill me, make it quick, then. But- _

Nader shouts orders in the background, somewhere in the distance. Blood does not taste like honeyed pastries, but...

None of them want to be here. The Church, like the Agarthans, never had that compunction.

She’s already on borrowed time. Plan C it is.

_ Fair warning, though. If you do, I’ll likely come back to haunt you. It’s not like I’ve had an easy time of it, after all. _

There’s a rush of air, and for a moment she thinks it’s Claude, that Plan C involves swooping in to broker some bizarre treaty, to pull her body from the field at the last minute, but the Flame Emperor herself circles back around to throw a vulnerary to her bloodied soldier, who takes a sip, and then awkwardly, inexplicably, _ holds out the bottle to her. _

_ Lysithea. Surrender, please. We’d be lucky to have a mage of your potential on our side, not to mention someone with your work ethic. _

_ You want me to join you? _

_ Is that so unexpected? I have no desire to kill any more people than necessary, not to mention former classmates. Under different circumstances, perhaps we could have been- _

The sounds of arrows, of screaming, they all echo around them. Claude’s orders are audible but murky. Hilda is yelling too, enraged by something.

They knew, the two of them, that night. They knew Derdriu wouldn’t hold.

Maybe it’s. Maybe it was inevitable.

_ The Alliance is over no matter what. _

Edelgard shouts something from atop her mount that rings in her ears, and takes off, and Caspar, she remembers now, presses the half-full bottle into her limp hand and hurriedly hails down the von Hevring boy to keep her from bleeding out.

Oh right. That was the one she was trying to kill.

***

_ We haven’t seen each other since Garreg Mach! _ Swords clash in the background as waves crash against the docks of Derdriu. Claude grins from atop his wyvern, a massive warped bow pulsing in his hands. He’s already got an arrow notched. _ You’ve grown lovelier than ever, Edelgard! _

Lovely?

She’s painted in crimson – her own and his soldiers’ – wounded and bruised from the mad dash of a flight along the city’s edge. But even now, even as she’s about to – that he can still find such _ levity _– she finds herself able to muster a small smile. For his sake.

And for her own.

_ You’re not so unfortunate yourself. And as usual, you’re here at a most inopportune moment. _

_ Well, I’m sure we have much to talk about. But- _

And Claude grips his bow tighter, eyes flickering to Nader’s corpse where it lays on the ship, to the watchful eyes of the living, all staring at the two of them, speaking like this, as they duke it out for their lives.

-_ how about we settle things, first? _

_ No objections here. Prepare yourself, Claude. _

She strikes first, and her crest _ flares _, and she does not, for once, hold back.

Her blood takes and it takes and it _ takes _, pulling crucial vigor from his own before he shoots her in the side, and she knocks him clean off his wyvern onto the cobblestone, where he holds a hand up, bloody and kneeling.

It is her second victory in this war, and first true one. It should feel worthwhile.

Voices beneath Enbarr scream for retribution, and she wonders if it will ever feel worth it.

_ Enough! _ Claude is pleading now, and something in her gut clenches at the shift in his voice from the laid-back banter they exchanged earlier. Is this her fault, or Rhea’s? _ You’ve bested me. If I die here, the Alliance becomes part of the Empire. _

_ This was never about that, _she almost says. This was never about dominion, about conquest, about hegemony and ownership and sovereignty. The Alliance refused to act as a unified body, and a two-part war became three.

But instead, because it’s Claude, and a statement of the obvious is always an argument, she asks, _Do you yield, then?_ _You’ve never known when to give up._

_ Well, I can’t just surrender so easily. I’m responsible for the others. _

More couched language. He’s lucky her childhood was a crash-course in deciphering it.

The same others watch them like hawks even now. The strings tied to Claude’s back are not the same as her own, but perhaps she gave him both too much and too little credit over these past five years. Perhaps, in another life, they could have been friends.

_ If you’re as smart as you seem, I bet you’ve figured out why I was able to summon Almyran reinforcements. _

_ This is your gambit, then? _Suddenly, she envies him enough to want to push him into the sea, let the unfathomable blackness of the tide carry him home, just for having the freedom of being able to play a card like this, to run away from it all. Can she begrudge him that, though?

Claude swallows, and shrugs, wincing at the pull of his shoulder on the rib she’d smashed earlier. _ Took a while to set it up, get all the pieces in place. And it’s still assuming that I was right, that your ideals aren’t so far from my own. Wouldn’t it be better to let me go and have me in your debt? _

There’s a bitter howl, and Claude winces again - Hilda. She’s seen Claude dismounted. But the eyes are off them, just for a moment, as the others are concerned with keeping her from rushing the pair, and so she acts quickly.

_ Give me your bow. _

Claude starts. _ What- _

_ Unless you’d rather stick around and help out, but if you want them to think I actually killed you, so you can leave in peace with a unified Alliance, I need something to- _

Failnaught drops to the ground with a clatter, and Claude grabs her forearm with a gloved palm before reaching onto the side of his saddle, obscuring himself from view of the main army. It’s a surprisingly warm gesture.

_ Thanks, Edelgard. I’m.. truly grateful for your courageous decision. I will return your kindness one day… I promise. _

He kicks off in a low dive, clinging to the side of his mount as it flies across the surface of the water, and the rest of the army watches a lone wyvern mournfully hasten to catch up with the fleeing Almyrans.

***

Hubert is _ incensed _that she engaged him without backup, not to mention nobody else was around to read any other intentions into his words. She, in response, posits the fact that the fight ended far faster than expected, limiting casualties and damage to the city.

They’re midway into an argument about that, among tense discussion of seventy or so other logistical items – governance of Derdriu, allocation of medical attention among wounded enemy troops and civilians, who among the strike force could be trusted with the information that von Riegan is not only still alive, but almost certainly Almyran royalty – off to the side of the main army. Her Professor chimes in with occasional input, nodding occasionally, offering support, diffusing the tension.

_ Positive outcome or not, Lady Edelgard, it was still rash. It would be likewise rash to spread information among our allies. _

The Professor chimes in with a small nod. _ Some, I think, it would help raise morale to know the truth, though. But I do agree – politics aren’t my forte, but I suspect Miss Goneril won’t be inclined to help you either way. Perhaps in her case, you could wait until she’s recovered from her injuries. Maybe ask him to write to her, or something. _

Edelgard turns to Hubert. _ What of Lysithea? She’d agreed to fight on our behalf even before he fell in combat. _

_ What of her? _

_ Well, it would make for a remarkable display of good faith. One I suspect she’s most likely not expecting from any Adrestian banner. _

An exhausted voice softly calls out: _ Not expecting it, no, but she’s pretty primed to help you out already. Might make her a bit more inclined to work with you personally, though. _

A bloodied figure quietly saunters up from behind the building they’re using as cover from the rest of the forces to speak in confidence – the wounded form of Claude von Riegen, still slightly hunched over, clutching at wounded ribs – and sheepishly winks at her.

He winks at Hubert too, of course, but he’s having none of it either.

She can’t even cover the trace of stern disappointment in her voice amidst the surprise as she calls his name, because really, what the fuck is Claude _ thinking? _He’s not stupid enough to come back, after everything, unless there’s some other reason, and Hubert looks exhausted, he’s going to give her so much shit for this, if this doesn’t turn into a diplomatic disaster or an ambush or-

He holds up his hands – still empty. Still bloodied. _ Settle down, will you? You’re the victor, after all. I could have just escaped, but I decided to say hi to Teach. Nothing to worry about. Derdriu has fallen, and the Alliance collapsed. There’s nothing I could do to turn things around at this point. _

_ You want me to drop my guard around someone who evaded detection by my soldiers? Did you really risk coming here just to say hello? _

_ I did. But mostly, I wanted to say good-bye. I’m leaving Fodlan. _

_ I figured as much. I’d ask you to lend us your strength, but there’s no way you can do that without throwing the Alliance back into unrest, is there? _

_ Lend you my… I knew I liked you! Yeah, that isn’t going to happen. I daresay Fodlan would be a lot more peaceful without me around. _

_ Maybe in a year or so. There are other battles to be fought besides the Church, you know. _

_ So I’ve heard. Actually, that reminds me, I did come back for one other thing. _

_ Ah. The point emerges. _

_ First, thank you for not cutting Hilda or Lysithea in half. Second, you might want to look into your internal management – long-standing ministers and dukes, and all that. Maybe the mages, in particular. You may have a corruption problem. _

_ Believe me, I took *extensive* pains to handle the human portion of things the moment I was coronated. _

He raises an eyebrow, lips tightly pressed together in what’s almost a smile, but not quite. _ That’s a really interesting distinction to make, Edelgard. _

_ It is, isn’t it. _

_ Do you know, Edelgard, she didn’t have her crest of Charon before the Empire retaliated against House Ordelia, all those years back? And you know th- _

_ Wait, I thought Lysithea had a crest of Gloucester? _

_ Oh, my bad. I must have gotten mixed up. Anyway, my point is, Edelgard- _

_ -Claude, you almost never mix anything- _

Claude’s voice drops to the same quiet murmur she’s only heard him use once before, that one time they spoke as children shortly after his arrival at Garreg Mach, skipping church together to stare at the open fields, when he asked her if she’d survived assassination attempts as well.

_ I’ve only ever seen one person – _ and Claude flashes a quick, _ pointed _ glance towards the Professor, and fuck _ , fuck _ – _ use the crest you struck me with earlier, so I figured you of all people might want to know. _

_ Oh, and this goes without saying, but since I have witnesses, Lysithea’s been through enough as is from all of that. If I hear this information gets out, or worse, good luck holding Fodlan’s Locket. Take good care of her. _

_ I don’t- I wouldn’t- _

(It’s true. It’s true, it’s true she’s not alone, but-)

It was like watching a ghost of herself, earlier, bleeding out on the cobbled stones. She knew there were more, she knew the cost of her life was couched in the blood of millions and she’d never asked for any of it, any fleeting victory she ever achieves will be built on the back of countless dead, _ countless _ ghosts-

-and what to show for it?

She would rather be alone than look in a mirror and see it happen again and again and again, because then she has to _ remember _it, constantly, and looking at her is like being reminded of it all - of the past, the future, the heavy, iron weight around her neck that chafes her every step forward.

She will have to carry it. She _will_ carry Lysithea’s burden if she has to. 

It was her own fault, after all.

(-She’s not alone. It’s true. Would she rather be?)

Claude smiles, warm and soft, surprisingly gracious, ever baffling.

_ Good luck to you, Edelgard. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background pairings for the fic, which start to pop up partway through the chapter: Caspar/Linhardt, Dorothea/Petra, Ingrid/Ashe, Felix/Sylvain, Marianne/Hilda, and Ferdinand/Hubert.

Garreg Mach is dusty and crumbling, the ruins of the old cathedral caving in from battles long since weathered.

The chapel is in disuse, and she spends little time there, for the smell of crushed stone from the roof’s collapse carries on the wind even to the library, but it still bustles with the occasional visitor – the odd priest or laysister, laboring away in vain at a restoration that seems nigh purposeless to her.

She wonders why Edelgard encourages them.

(She wonders this for weeks, until she crosses paths with Ashe and several young children, and realizes the value in a large defensible space.)

Edelgard finds her there the day she first sets foot in it, a foggy night several days after their return to the campus from Derdriu, when she’s gone wandering the halls against the advice of Professor Manuela and the others who’d patched the mangled remains of her body back together.

She knows it’s not primarily to chastise her, though she is, of course, eventually encouraged to return to the infirmary. Edelgard, out of anyone, understands – she had to walk around, prove she was still free to get out of the bed, remove herself from the presence of the Empire’s best and brightest-

And the first time they speak, amidst the bloody war of the Eagle and the Lion that tore the throat out of the Deer, the first words Edelgard says to her since a desperate plea to her broken body to surrender, that all but confirmed the discomfort churning within her gut for the past five and a half years, are-

-a barely-spoken whisper, a profession, a confession.

Edelgard’s hair is undone, hanging loosely down the back of her cotton nightshirt, neither ribbons nor crown to hold it in place, like some nighttime specter, haunting the abandoned, broken building. Her eyes flicker between Lysithea’s own and the exposed sky, the fog obscuring even the Eastern Star from view, as she quietly apologizes for not informing her earlier. 

_ Confides _ in her, like they’ve known each other. Like she wasn’t a week before plotting how to best help maneuver Hilda into a position where she could cut her in half, have Claude put an arrow in her heart-

And she thinks of him, finally home in Almyra, and wonders if it wasn’t the best gambit any of them could come up with. She realizes, in that moment, that Claude von Riegan is a better judge of character than she gave him credit for.

Even Hilda managed to pull through, though she really pushed it towards the end. Lysithea is oddly proud.

The others – she doesn’t want to bother Edelgard about it, so she asks Annette – tell her that Holst is still permitted to retain his position, so House Goneril’s control over Fodlan’s Locket isn’t just in name only, though obviously, they’re deploying Imperial troops to “assist.” Still, that puts some of her fear to rest. Goneril won’t be a second Ordelia, and all in all, Plan C worked wonders.

(She caves and takes an afternoon off when Manuela goes at her again for “resting properly,” sits in the garden and writes Hilda a letter, apologizing for not being able to hold her position, to protect her better. She crosses out the lines seven times. She writes Hilda a letter wishing her a speedy recovery, sends her some pressed anemones from her favorite bush. She settles on writing _ things will be as okay as they could be. _

_ At least we’re not dead. _

It kills her that she can’t just tell her to keep an eye on the skies.)

***

Lysithea makes it two weeks before she breaks down and caves into the nagging impulse to monopolize a moment of the Emperor’s time.

Granted, she’d only intended to have a short conversation, it was really only a couple of questions, and she knows Edelgard is incredibly busy with refining the strategy for Faerghus, not to mention the transition of power in former Leicester territory, but clearly Edelgard had been taking a page out of the Professor’s book, because she’d asked Lysithea if she’d like to speak over tea.

And, well, she threw in sweets. And Lysithea wasn’t going to say no, even before food was part of the deal, because Edelgard is damn near impossible to get a minute to speak with, not to mention speak with in _ relative _ solitude.

So, the notion of tea? Tea _ without _ Hubert, who, granted, is a capable man, Lysithea is certain, but how Edelgard can bear to have him around given his similarity to… anyway. It doesn’t matter. The point is, the offer of chocolate from Enbarr was surprising, and almost makes her wonder if Edelgard wants something from her as well.

It’s less transactional than she thought it would be, at first, though she’s pleasantly surprised to find herself enjoying the company. The past several months have been more than overwhelming – she may have been born an heiress, but by the time she was old enough to understand what that entailed, the expectation had long been removed from her shoulders. Having to play at politics, even for Claude’s sake, was exhausting. She knew she could do it, and she couldn’t bear to ask something like that of her parents at their age, and besides – someone had to mind the territory’s welfare, even if they _were_ giving the Empire free passage – but nonetheless, it was more than taxing.

Not just physically. Lysithea has never been a very patient person when it comes to humoring willful idiocy. Not that there was an excess of it amidst the Roundtable, but there was enough… at times.

She doesn’t envy Edelgard. It’s nice to be a scholar again, consulted on occasion, sought out to help on the battlefield, rather than have to play-act at diplomacy, have countless lives hanging in the balance of her advice.

But Edelgard is, for whatever reason, unwilling to broach her reason for the invitation to a private conversation, and they stick to meaningless musings, idle banter. Until Lysithea capitulates and plays her cards first.

Maybe Edelgard is just being polite. Lysithea did ask to speak to her, after all. Perhaps the invitation was for her own benefit.

It suits her just fine.

She asks Edelgard about the rumors, more than the mere manifestos that wound up in Derdriu, extending into a strange, yet-unshaped world that stretches beyond bloodlines. Beyond the crests within them.

Not just crests, it turns out. Edelgard, it seems, holds no love for the aristocracy they perpetuate. 

Some kind of meritocracy, then. Lysithea can get behind that.

Edelgard must certainly know it by now, but watching her sip quietly at the soft porcelain cup, eyes never leaving Lysithea’s own, she’s suddenly struck with a need to make certain.

_ Edelgard, I really agree with your thinking. _

The woman across the table raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t interrupt.

_ Look, my parents have suffered throughout their lives in ways they wouldn’t have had if they’d not been forced into… well, political catastrophe. Whatever you want to call it, the aristocracy saw no advantage in saving them, for fear of losing their own power, so they didn’t. And due to my own crests- _

Edelgard doesn’t react, and she knew it, she _ knew _ it.

She knew Edelgard had to have known.

If she hadn’t already, she’d almost certainly tapped her resources to find out- once it was clear Lysithea was... well. Dying.

Or if she didn’t go looking, whoever had done it had to have informed her once she took the throne, because it would be impossible to maintain diplomatic relationships with Hrym or Ordelia from a position of power without any understanding of the recent political landscape.

They were similar. They were.

Goddess, it’s no wonder Edelgard always acted like she was running out of time.

Lysithea is no longer hungry, and it for once, has nothing to do with herself.

_ Due to my own crests, I’ve never been able to live a normal life. So, I’m sick of nobility and crests – of all of it. It sounds as if it’s truly your mission to change things. _

Edelgard nods.

_ Then I’ll pledge my life to your cause, however short it may be. _

_ Lysithea… _Edelgard’s voice is soft, almost pitiful, and she has no idea what possessed her to say that, but it’s true, she’ll help, she holds no love for the Empire, but a person – a cause – isn’t a country, Edelgard isn’t Adrestia, despite the crimson armor, no more than Claude was Leicester.

She cannot bear to hear Edelgard speak her name like that, like someone about to cry on her, surprise laced with regret but something beyond mere pity, something dangerously bordering compassion, empathy even, and before she can stop herself, she interrupts.

She needs to hear it from her.

_ Speaking of such things, I can, uh, tell you know a fair bit about me. _

Edelgard sets her teacup down gently, though the quiet clink of porcelain cup against saucer is strangely audible. She nods to Lysithea’s small plate of half-eaten teacakes. _ Maybe this can wait until you’ve finished eating? _

_ Edelgard. You know a fair bit about me, don’t you? _

_ What in particular? _

Lysithea inhales deeply. Why must she- It would be much easier, this conversation is so long coming, and yet, the words are impossible to put together, and here they are: sitting over heavily-sweetened bergamot tea and pilfered chocolates, and yet Edelgard still dances, like a bird flying just out of reach-

_ For example – _ she will make this happen, she will – _ the fact that I have two crests. _

It doesn’t work. The wide-eyed expression she gets is practically insulting in its mimicry of true surprise. _ That’s… hard to believe, Lysithea. _

Frustration flares in her chest. Does Edelgard seriously think she’s stupid enough to miss _this, _of all things, it’s the lowest-hanging fruit she could have led with, and she won’t give her a single inch to work with_ – goddess, _she’s absolutely fucking _impossible_-

_ There’s no need to play coy with me. It won’t work. It’s obvious my body has succumbed to the intense pressure of bearing two crests. What’s more, due to the immense requirements of bearing these crests, my life expectancy is… _

She pauses to breathe, to recollect herself.

_ …painfully short. _

_ You know all of this. _

Edelgard’s voice is quieter, now, but still steady. Her cup of half-drunk tea has joined Lysithea’s, now, set aside on the small table, to grow cold and bitter. _ Actually, this is the first I’m hearing of it. How would I know unless you told me? _

_ Still won’t drop the act, huh? Despite how obvious you’ve been with your concern about my health? There was the incident in the library all those years back – I know you saw the blood. And ever since you brought me back from Derdriu, you’ve spent undue time and energy on the subject. That night in the cathedral- _

Edelgard raises her eyebrows.

-_ you insisted I return to the infirmary, when I know for a fact that Fraldarius snuck out the same night to train and was spared the lecture when you ran into him. It was you who insisted that Manuela keep me several extra days for observation, and she informed me you’d asked after me constantly since we returned to Garreg Mach. And don’t even try to make the argument that you found something in Seteth’s old desk, because my father explicitly refused to inform him of the nature of my illness. _

_ You’re certainly consistent in your assertions. As far as Felix, he’s- _

_ Edelgard, I’m really not in the mood for these games. Given your rank, you certainly have access to all kinds of information that others do not. Clearly, you’d have heard all about me. _

_ You think I’m the type of person who’d use my rank to pry into my allies’ personal histories? _

_ If you were any kind of intelligent leader, who accepted surrender from an enemy combatant, you absolutely would. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m referring to what your country did to my family. _

There’s an uncomfortable silence in the room. Finally, _ finally, _she gets a response, because Edelgard can no longer maintain eye contact, but.

It doesn’t make her feel any better.

_ Lysithea, I- _

Or less frustrated.

_ So, I would appreciate if you don’t insult my intelligence by playing coy, thank you very much. _

Just exhausted.

The words come out less sharp than she intends, and the moment it leaves her lips, Lysithea knows it’s a stupid question. _ Do you know how many people died? _

Because it’s clear in her blanched expression, that Edelgard knows the truth: _ more than enough. _

_ I- _

_ I know it wasn’t- _

_ Wasn’t your fault, _is what she would have said, had Edelgard not interrupted. After all, the young Emperor didn’t order any of it, that’s not what Lysithea meant to imply, that’s not what this discussion was meant to be about – not some misplaced blame that she’d slowly made her peace with over the past five years-

_ Please let me speak on this, Lysithea. _

Edelgard’s eyes are downcast. The room is no longer warm.

Lysithea shuts up.

_ I was kept, to an extent, in the dark _ (she emphasizes _ dark _ , stressing the word like it ought to have a point of significance to her, the syllables thick in her mouth like the bile in Lysithea’s own throat) _ regarding the actions of certain nobles in Hrym territory. Former Prime Minister Aegir was among them. He was the first I acted against upon taking the throne, if that’s any consolation. But I was, truly, Lysithea, unaware that you- before all this- _

_ Either way… I know now, since you just told me. About your two crests, your physical weakness, your short life expectancy. However, according to the principles of crest research, it’s impossible to bear two crests. _

Her tone tapers off like she’s reciting a chapter from a dry textbook. Delivery of a formality. She’s not even putting effort into the façade at this point.

_ That’s true, but- _

_ Unless… you’ve undergone a blood reconstruction surgery. Is that the case, Lysithea? _

It’s as if she knows. She knows exactly what happened, and yet she’s still dancing.

_ Correct. Though, as you know, it wasn’t as if I had a say in any of this. _

_ I see. So, you’ve lived through that relentless terror and agony… and survived. _

_ You speak of all this as though you understand it on a personal level. Edelgard, have you… _

She can’t finish the sentence.

It trails off into nothingness, they can’t say the words: it’s too soon. Edelgard can’t even admit it happened to Lysithea, and it turns out, Lysithea can barely even admit it happened to herself to anyone besides her parents, for she’s so used to hiding the truth of the matter for fear of what it might spark in those who discover it, the fear of further ceaseless experiments, the untapped curiosity of well-intentioned scholars who’d pick apart what little peace she’d salvaged for herself from the scraps they’d left her of her life.

Fuck, she barely speaks about it around her parents, either. There’s hardly any point – they already know, it’s painful for them, too.

Voicing this is an impossibility.

_ You’re a good friend, Lysithea. And a valuable- _

Edelgard pauses, fiddling awkwardly with the thumb of her glove as she searches for the words.

_ -and intelligent member of this army, so I won’t have you overexerting yourself. _

It’s not a yes.

But, as she stares at the woman before her, and wonders how she never noticed that Edelgard, like her, never shows skin beyond the face and occasionally, hands, favoring her high-collared tunics, her armor over long sleeves, even the shorts over tights in the academy days-

It’s also not a no. And from Edelgard, that’s as good as she’ll get, it seems.

_ I don’t want to lose you. _

_ …Understand? _

_ I understand. _

Does she? She thinks of Edelgard, strapped to a table, body rent and torn asunder. She thinks of Hubert, her dark shadow, always hovering, her dark-ringed eyes, the occasional screams echoing through the second-floor hallway in the middle of the night.

Kept in the dark, she claims. Or _ by _ it.

If they would do that to an Emperor, then they would not do so without leverage.

(Is she a puppet on a string?)

_ If you like those cakes, why not take some with you for later? _

_ There’s no need to pander to me. But yes… I’ll take those. Thanks. _

Edelgard smiles softly at her as she helps Lysithea pack a couple into a smaller box, and the moment feels so out of place to her – like another world, another place, another time, where two young noblewomen take tea in a monastery and lose time in each other’s society.

Where Edelgard stays eighth in line for the throne, and has the freedom to travel beyond the Empire’s borders, to visit her in Ordelia territory, where she can afford to indulge in these small moments, where they had the chance to cultivate friendship without having to cobble together carefully concealed half-statements to crack through the barriers of years and war-weariness and countless corpses.

Blood on both their hands, though the worst of it on others’.

(She can still hear the ghost of her childhood self: screaming in her ears, clawing at her throat, the thunder thrumming in her blood, asking her what she’s doing, why would she, after _ everything _, how could she willingly submit herself to serve-

She’s sworn no loyalty to borders.

It’s not the same. 

But Edelgard is.)

***

Weeks pass. Caspar pulls her aside one afternoon as she crosses the courtyard, leaping up from where he’s seated on the grass to catch her arm, to ask if she has a minute to speak.

He apologizes for beating the shit out of her, eyes sheepishly downcast, unable to meet her own.

She tells him not to. She was aiming to kill, after all.

And in spite of that, he pulled back anyway, so really, the fact that he thought he owed her an apology for that was beyond nonsensical, it was _ war- _

Caspar blanches, cutting her off as he covers his face with his hands. _ Would you just let me apologize for this? Sheesh! _

_ Look, you’re being ridiculous. _

_ Yeah, but you were laid up in the infirmary for twice as- _

_ Enough. Just… thank you. _

A wry voice from the sprawling figure on the grass asks if she’d consider deigning to thank him too, for bothering to save her life.

_ It’s not like it was easy, after all. You’re hardly the first one I’ve patched up from that sort of thing, hell, from Caspar’s fists, even, but that was exhausting. It was like… _

He waves his hands, eyes far-off and still half-lidded, as if gestures will help him figure out how to express himself better.

_ …like your body just wanted to die. _

Caspar glares at him. _ Linhardt is just kidding. _

_ Oh, I’m not. _

***

Tea with Lysithea becomes a regular occurrence, amidst the hectic responsibilities of the day-to-day. That’s not to say she never takes tea, so to speak – she meets up with Ferdinand, even, when she has the energy to handle his occasional flair for the dramatic, because he does make decent policy points, but those far too often fall into business, and the Professor’s tea hours function more as forced breaks than social callings.

Spending time with Lysithea is… enlivening. She’s a witty, intelligent young woman. Certainly, they speak mostly about her objectives: her goals for the future, the revolution on the horizon, the new dawn she so desperately hopes to live to bring about, but when Lysithea asks about it, it feels like idle teatime conversation rather than a public policy meeting. 

It’s encouraging to be able to speak with someone sympathetic who isn’t obligated to hold her as the pinnacle of righteousness by virtue of her position, that’s all. Granted, Ferdinand doesn’t do that either, but he still needles at everything like it’s a competition, though his attitude has markedly improved over the years.

But sometimes, to be brutally honest, they just speak about chocolates.

Lysithea, she learns, prefers the kinds with sweet floral fillings that have long since fallen by the wayside with the war on. She wonders how difficult it would be to requisition a box.

It’s not much in the way of an apology, nor does she intend it to be, but for some reason, she feels like she owes her that much - to try, at least. Something about the other woman just makes her want to be kind. Perhaps it’s the hair, perhaps it’s the situation, perhaps Lysithea reminds her of herself, that she has less time than she’d like, that she was never afforded any.

Perhaps she just likes her company. Is that really so terrible? She’s an Emperor. She can afford to be indulgent, sometimes.

It’s at one of these small tea breaks when it happens. 

They’re in the library, Lysithea leafing through old tomes that are far beyond her personal understanding of reason magic, though Lysithea did her best to explain the basic theory of it when she’d asked. She’s been reviewing the small file Hubert put together on the false Cornelia for the better part of the morning, trying to rack her brain for anything else to add from the hazy time she spent in Faerghus.

So, they take tea together, make idle chatter about the future, about Lysithea’s books, about the sweets that Lysithea has never questioned yet, when Edelgard notices she’s been staring for the better part of a minute.

_ Edelgard, your braid’s come undone. _

She’d not been thinking straight this morning, she’d forgotten to do it properly. They have one chance to get this woman along with Arianrhod.

Setting the small series of coded notes aside, she reaches up, gently tucking the edges of the braid back into the curled iron of her headpiece. Lysithea watches with a pensive, heavyset expression, fingers curled in much the same way around her small teacup, books forgotten.

_ What’s on your mind, Lysithea? _

_ An idle curiosity, nothing relevant to the subject at hand. Has… _Lysithea gestures with her chin towards Edelgard’s hands, now tucking the end of the braid under the rest of the coil.

_ Has your hair always been that color, by the way? _

She drops the piece of hair.

It slips out from the metal crown, falling amidst the strands that frame her face, to hang there limply for a moment before realizes she’s let go, before she can scramble to recapture it, to come up with something to say-

_ I ask because mine wasn’t always this color. I lost all pigment after receiving my two Crests. _

She’s aware. She- she suspected as much, for she was much the same, and then of course, there’s, well… von Hrym.

It’s just, she’s unsure of how to navigate this, this slippery parallel between the two of them. Lysithea is a lovely girl, and she’s certain she’d understand, but to speak so openly of such things invites disaster. She’s under enough pressure as-is to get this right, and to throw it all away for personal… what?

Recognition of the affair? Some kind of twisted catharsis?

It’s selfish. And she knows better than to afford herself anything of the sort at the moment, because look where that kind of thinking gets people. It got her mother killed. Lysithea _ has _ to be smart enough to know that all of their lives are in her hands, and that means they’re all in _ Thales’s _ hands, and one misstep, one- someone will undoubtedly just- 

He needs them for Fhirdiad. She breathes. He needs them for Fhirdiad, but afterwards they have a war to fight, and _ weakness cannot be afforded, she cannot give him that power over her, _because acknowledging it means-

Means it happened.

It was painful enough to bring that all into the open once, five years ago. But doing it again, with a girl who bore the brunt of the burden, who suffered _ explicitly for her? _ What is there to say? How can she speak to her own suffering, when it pales in comparison, in cause, when any and all good that could possibly be gleaned from it came at the expense of hundreds, maybe _ thousands _ dead, and they are all made manifest in the face of the woman who stands before her, who now reaches for her hair, who gently tucks the offending piece back into its proper place, smoothing the coil, who looks at her with an expression that looks as lost as Edelgard feels, hand still lingering atop Edelgard’s own.

Lysithea’s voice is soft, and though the words are firm, there is a tremor in it, an unsteadiness. _ Edelgard, I want a world where people like you and I are- are no longer victimized. I want you to bring that world into being. If it’s within me to help that come to pass, then I’ll do whatever it takes. _

(The implied meaning, Edelgard thinks, being that, _ if she lives long enough to help _. How many years before her own transformation, her own torture, was Lysithea’s own?)

_ I was serious when I said I’d pledge my life to your cause, you know. And we both know I’m not light-minded enough to throw what remains of it away on a crusade against the church- _

_ -do you not think what we’re doing is important? _

_ -without reason. But the point still stands: that’s not the cause I was referring to. I overheard a conversation between Hubert and Lord Arundel a couple days ago, regarding the task he “required” assistance with. _

_ Lysithea. _This cannot continue.

_ Are we ever going to be able to speak about it? Because I know. I know what they- _

Lysithea’s voice breaks off, trailing into nothingness. There is a moment, in which the two of them linger – Edelgard seated in the same dusty-backed chairs of the old library, spine rigid, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, _ anything, _and Lysithea…

Lysithea equally frozen, one hand resting atop a curved iron crown, embossed with a false crest, thumb still interlaced with Edelgard’s hair, staring at her face like she’s searching for answers within it.

She meets Lysithea’s eyes, just barely, and the moment cracks, shattering like the crest stones in the holy tomb, simultaneously horrifying and magnetic.

Lysithea’s lips part slowly. Her voice has recovered that air of slight haughtiness, that sardonic inflection that she’s come to appreciate, but Edelgard can tell from the nervous flickering of her eyes, the withdrawal of her hand, the fidgeting, that this isn’t sarcasm.

_ I understand. That’s all I’m saying. And I can’t imagine how you can bear to look at me, quite honestly, because it took me six years before I could look at you without wanting to tear your hair out, and I had no idea we were two sides of the same coin before then. _

_ To be honest, I think I ought to be asking you that question. _

Because therein lies the issue. How could she? How could Lysithea stand to sit here, to take tea with the source of every waking horror, every nightmare inflicted upon her? To work with – work _ for – _ someone under the thumb of the monsters responsible, who might as well be one of them?

To wake up every morning and stare at the broken phantom of what her aggregated suffering produced?

If she were Lysithea, she’d have taken the dying shot at her in Derdriu.

But Lysithea simply snorts, at her words, laughing as she brushes at damp eyes. _ Is that an admission, finally, Emperor? Here I thought you’d never confess. _

But she’s not Lysithea.

She’s the Emperor of Adrestia, and unlike her father, she has an _ army _ at her behest, and nothing more to lose by acting other than those who’ve already agreed to risk their lives for her.

_ Like you... like you said. I’m limited to a point. For now. But… I will promise to do all I can to see this goal to fruition. And I’d like you to promise me something in return. _

_ …that you will never stop fighting for your life. _

***

Garreg Mach is burning.

They’ve been prepared for a preemptive offensive from Faerghus or the Church, of course, and she’d been informed that the occupying army was on high alert, given the likelihood of some kind of strike following hot on the heels of their involvement in Leicester. But, of course, preparation is always theoretical at best, particularly when it involves bloodshed.

The Church of Seiros fights dirty, no holds barred, with fire and flame and no compunction about slaughtering the unholy, so there’s no point in feeling guilty about backing up those who defend their home a second time, perhaps, as they stare down familiar faces. Von Aegir and Linhardt both plead with a screaming Flayn, who does her best to dismount the paladin from her position by the walls with radiant light.

Gilbert charges straight for Annette, who begs him to reconsider, because she cannot, she _ knows _ she is doing what’s right, and is cut off by a gout of flame from Mercedes.

Alois lies in a pool of blood amidst the flames. There are no more jokes today.

But the body of the army has broken off to try and subdue or dissuade Seteth, who’s leading the enemy command, and Lysithea is-

-she’s surrounded. She’d rushed past to hold the line, keep reinforcements from breaching the right flank, but they were in the bushes, and she’s so surrounded, this is a _ mess- _

But there’s the soft hum of a warp spell, and for a moment, she thinks thank _ fuck, _Linhardt sent Ferdinand ahead. Gods, she’d even take Hubert at this point.

As quickly as the hum dissipates, though, there’s the sound of hooves cantering against stone, galloping at full tilt ahead, as a dark knight hurls himself into the fray like a demon, and _ shit, _she’s heard the rumors, the bastard who stabbed Manuela, here on Edelgard’s payroll, but it’s different to see Jeritza in the flesh, on your side of a fight.

He cuts down soldiers like a man possessed, like Marianne with a lance on a bad day, carving through the lot of them like nothing more than tightly bound meat in a butchery, and she stares as she casts, wheezing heavily in the smoke, watches him twist the scythe with a cold relish, the dark metal of it unlit even by the burning foliage, until the last body falls.

The Death Knight then turns towards Lysithea.

His movements slow, though the both of them breathe heavily, bloodied and burnt, and he pulls his horse to a firm halt as dark spikes continue to crackle in her hands, every enemy on this side of the wall reduced to bloody pools at their feet in what felt like mere moments.

He opens his mouth to speak, she opens hers to scream, the fire _ burns _ around the pair of them, but neither makes a sound before a bruised figure turns the corner.

Mercedes rushes over to heal him, to reach for the bloodied wound where one of the soldiers scored a lucky hit to his side, and he flinches at her touch, and Lysithea almost has to turn away from the display, because it’s weirdly painful to look at.

It’s just so human, for someone so… not.

(Never mind that she was the same way with healing magic for years. Never mind that at all. Never mind her own injuries, either – she has vulnerary for those.)

It’s just fitting that Jeritza von Hrym, the man who took over her dead friend’s house, would use Agarthan weaponry too, would be a plant of their own. Would be _ monstrous _ enough to cultivate some kind of society with Emile’s sister, after everything that happened.

Would be horrible enough to shove Mercedes’ hand away from his head, as she’s kind enough to reach up to tuck a shock of pale blonde hair back into his mask.

But, in the light of the burning battle, it almost looks white.

***

Claude’s stars must have a truly wicked sense of humor, or at least balance, because after that whole debacle, Hilda finally writes her back.

She liked the flowers, which makes Lysithea happy, because at least she could do something to help. Those back on the home front had also finally found Marianne, _ thank goodness: _Lysithea had about near given up on any hope of news since she’d gone missing months prior.

“_ There was an incident with… you know. But she’ll be fine! I think! Holst said she could stay with us, which is just, you know, great and all, because I really didn’t think she’d want to head back to Margrave Edmund’s territory with all the demonic beasts around. Plus, we can have some girl time while we both convalesce tragically together. _

_ You know, for all I bitched and moaned about everything, poor girl just got put through the wringer, Lysithea. Want to go hunting, when I’m better? If you aren’t busy with your… newfangled army, and all? Because I will, quite literally, murder everything on Margrave Edmund’s property the second I get my arms on my axe again. _

_ Goddess, Lysithea. I missed her so much. Send me some lilies, won’t you? It would cheer her up so much, and I actually swear, I’m literally not allowed off of bedrest, or I’d drag the whole garden in here myself. She’s too pretty to sit around sadly without me doing anything about it.” _

She can’t stop smiling.

Well, she can, and she does, because _ poor Marianne, _she doesn’t even want to think about what kind of crest business went on, but at least she’s alive, and that’ll give Hilda something productive to focus on.

So, lilies it is, then. Plus, some for Hilda. She pens an appropriately conservative response, since undoubtedly her mail here is being read by _ somebody, _with an additional hello for Marianne, and heads across the grounds towards the greenhouse.

Flowers in hand, it’s not too far to the marketplace. But, of course, fate never works kindly.

_ Lysithea? _

Edelgard sits atop one of the walls, still armored from the day’s flight training, mid-way through reviewing what appear to be damage reports.

_ Good afternoon, Edelgard. _

Edelgard smiles, looking towards the market below, lit by the warm sun of a newly returning spring. _ It is, isn’t it? It’s lovely out. I’m just waiting for Hubert, so I decided I might as well get some work done outside, while I was at it. I see I’m not the only one who took advantage of the change in weather, either. _

Ashe and Ingrid gesticulate excitedly over thickly-bound leather tomes amidst the bustle of the marketplace. She can hear singing carry from somewhere farther along the walls, followed by emphatic applause, and the unmistakable sound of Petra’s delighted praise, of Dorothea’s bashful embarrassment.

Still visible from here, even, she can see Caspar and Linhardt leaning against each other by the pond, fingers intertwined around a fishing pole.

_ I suppose, yes. _

And then, because the thought really does just then occur to her, and Lysithea cannot, apparently, ever keep her mouth shut-

_ You know, it’s nice, for once, to have someone understand why I’m not interested in that sort of thing without my having to explain myself. _

Edelgard raises an eyebrow, then follows her gaze to the pair by the pond.

_ I mean – _ Lysithea tilts her chin towards Ingrid, whose face has gone red at something undoubtedly innocuous – _ even some of the others who had good reason to be put off when we were at school, family, crests, what have you – it’s not the same for them. _

Edelgard smiles, biting her lip, and looks towards the small bundle of flowers in Lysithea’s arms.

_ Oh, that reminds me… I was wondering. You _ ** _are_ ** _ spending quite a bit of time with Sylvain lately- _

_ Oh, Goddess, no. It’s just, we both hate our crests, it turns out. He’s not so bad, Felix isn’t awful either, and plus, I figured he’s like… Look. He’s been more useful to you since he pulled his head partway out of his ass. I was wondering if I could convince him to pull it the rest of the way out. _

Edelgard’s laughter is almost infectious. _ Good luck with that. But actually, speaking earnestly, I wonder if such endeavors would go better for you than they have for me. _

Lysithea shakes her head. _ I feel like you of all people understand why wasting time on meaningless flings with other people is not an option. _

Edelgard sets her papers aside, patting the wall next to her. _ It’s not just the time investment, is it? _

_ Correct. There’s just too much to- wait. What did you mean by better? _

_ I didn’t take you for a gossip, Lysithea. _

_ I’m not. I want to know if Claude von Riegan owes me ten gold, not that I plan on ever collecting on it. _

_ We shouldn’t be speaking about such things. You and I had- I was older. Mistakes were made. It wasn’t a good idea to begin with, we were both too young and far too- _ Edelgard cuts herself off, pauses, and starts over. _ It nearly happened once, and it was awful enough for everyone involved that we swore never to speak of it again. _

She stares.

_ I just thought, perhaps, that it might make me feel as if I had some control over… everything, really. I’m not certain why I thought that, of all things. Regardless, it wasn’t a good idea. _

_ I really can’t claim I was more rational than you, immediately after. My parents had their work cut out for them. I believe quite a few visitors refused to come back after I bit them for touching my hair without asking. _

Edelgard tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress a small laugh.

Lysithea continues. _ I just… I suppose it doesn’t feel like an impossibility in and of itself. It’s just that I’d need to be very slow about that. That sort of thing. _

The Emperor nods. _ Therein lies the catch, does it not? _

Because it does. 

Neither of them have the luxury of that time.

At least, as Edelgard returns to her papers, armor gleaming in the soft sunlight, and Lysithea turns back towards the market, dress scraping against warm sandstone, sweetly-scented lilies in hand, she’s comforted by the knowledge that whatever may come, in that short time-

-there’s a chance she won’t be alone. 

***

As the march approaches, it’s easy to bury herself in work. There’s plenty to be done, plans to be finalized, reports to be signed off on, intelligence to be reviewed, decisions to be weighted.

She’s still certain taking Arianrhod is the right call, at least as a point of entry for the main invading force. Never mind the convenient excuse of “collateral damage.” It’ll also enable them to handle Duke Fraldarius, should he remain at his posting and not join the main force in Fhirdiad, though again-

-she should probably feel something about that. How many of her allies’ – her _ friends’ _– parents has she ordered cut down, at this point? She’s even held the knife herself, once.

The situation is regrettable, but there’s nothing that can be done for it. He’s as good as compromised, working with Cornelia, and from what the others have shared with her, he’s willing to die simply because a Prince gave the order. It would be one thing if it were backed by any sort of purpose or bearing, but there’s just no _ point _ in reasoning with nobles unable to think for themselves.

A knock at the door of her office startles her from her thoughts, and only then does she realize that dusk has already settled in comfortably. Shit. She’d meant to run by the armory, too.

_ Come in. _

Sylvain flashes her an easy smile, one hand ruffling sweat-damp hair, the other gingerly closing the door behind himself, as though concerned someone will hear him.

_ What brings you here, Sylvain? I presume it concerns the situation with the Margrave? _

The grin grows wider, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Hmm. Maybe not.

_ Yeah, so mixed news on that front. Bad news is, my father’s an asshole, and I seriously doubt I can push him farther, because he’s certainly not above disinheriting another son and just trying again. Hell, I don’t doubt he’s already working out a backup. _

_ But, _ and he tilts his head, his voice dripping with frustration, _ good news is, he’s an _ ** _opportunist_ ** _ asshole, and you’re a pretty damn likely candidate for “the winning side” at this point, even if he isn’t willing to lay his ass on the line just yet. _

_ Ah. So I’ll take it we won’t have a problem, at least? _

He grins. _ I gave him some pretty good cards to play. Official word is, Gautier is just too damn busy with the whole Sreng business to do anything about this whole continental shebang pushing into home turf. Which, granted, isn’t a complete lie. _

Well, at least there’s that. Small victories. _ Nice work. _

_ No reinforcements for us, but then again, none for Rhea. Anyway, that’s actually not why I’m here. I had a question before we shipped out. _

_ Sylvain, if it’s about the orders, it can either wait until the march or be directed to Hubert or Ferdinand. If it’s not- _

-_ It’s not about the orders. _

Well, at least he has the sense to look sheepish about cutting her off.

_ It’s uh, about Fhirdiad, actually. More precisely, the couple years you spent there. _

This is clearly not going to be a quick and easy conversation. Nor will it be one she can multitask during, and so she begrudgingly sets aside the current draft of the approach plan.

_ What about? _

_ Look, this isn’t my business- _

_ -you’re off to an excellent start- _

_ -but I can tell that it’s driving Felix up a fucking tree again. And if Ingrid weren’t going into silent conniptions at the notion of having to storm our old childhood stomping grounds, I’m sure she’d have asked you long before I got here, and I’m not going to put that on her for the sake of maintaining formality. _

What the fuck is he on about?

_ He’s just under enough pressure with everything as it is, right? I mean, we’re all with you, but Ingrid’s family is on your side, my father doesn’t give a shit. Everyone who’s met the guy knows the only thing that could possibly stop Rodrigue from taking the field in Dimitri’s defense is someone else killing him first. _

_ It’s a likely possibility, yes. One I’ve spoken to him about. I still have no idea what this has to do with Fhirdiad, though, nor your question. _

_ Look, E- Edelgard, I don’t really give a shit why you weren’t all buddy-buddy with us when we all got to Garreg Mach, but yeah – a part of me is pretty fucking curious why you just suddenly pretended like we never existed. _

He pauses, and she waits, because the easiest thing to do is to let him explain himself, maybe that way she won’t have to think too hard about what he’s going on about. It works, to an extent – Sylvain takes a deep breath, keeps going, chooses his words more carefully, with less vitriol.

_ I mean, we all clearly know it hit Dimitri the hardest, but he was looking for a convenient outlet, I think. And I think one of us would have pushed the issue earlier, but… well, pardon the language, but most of us were a bit fucked after Duscur, and I certainly didn’t want to be the one to stir the pot. _

He shrugs. _ There or anywhere else, actually. _

She reaches back, searching through foggy memories for something other than the subsequent mess, anything outside of a castle, anything happy. Just soldiers, knights, nobles. Carriage rides and corridors. The dirt smelled different, she remembers. That’s something.

But, then… it was all of them? Not just Dimitri. All four.

_ The short answer, Sylvain, is that I really wasn’t lying. My memory of that year was pretty hazy. _

His eyebrows shoot through the roof, and she frantically searches her words for something that could have elicited such a reaction.

_ It was a couple years, actually. You were there for a couple years. _

Touché. _ See case in point. _

_ I’m just trying to understand. I mean, shit, you know Dimitri is going to drag all that old crap out into the open, and we’re all behind you here, but it’d be nice to know what we’re dealing with. _

_ Look, Sylvain, it’s really quite simple – _ because it _ is _ – _ I was abducted following a massive political upheaval in the Empire, I was brought to Fhirdiad, I was there, I was re-abducted _ ** _,_ ** _ and then- _

_ -wait. Wait wait wait. _

_ Sylvain. _ He _ cannot _ be that stupid, she’s seen him with Annette, she’s watched Lysithea run gambit strategy by him for the past couple weeks. _ As senseless as you occasionally claim to be, I know you’re not completely uninformed, you’ve been working for the Empire for the past nearly six years now and studying with them for a year before that, I _ ** _know_ ** _ you know about the Insurrection of the Seven- _

_ -you were _ ** _abducted?_ ** _ By your uncle? _

Shit.

Sylvain’s eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and her hand twitches, shit, if only she could just- if he ends up concussed, maybe he won’t remember this conversation-

_ Same uncle we just did a job for this month, huh. That uncle. _

Oh no. No, no, no, no this _ cannot _ be happening-

-she grabs the handle of Amyr from where it rests beneath her desk, hauling it up and over, holding it steady behind her shoulder with both hands, if he moves so much as a fucking _ inch _ without a satisfactory reply, fuck, how long has she been here, where’s _ Hubert- _

Her voice is not nearly as steady as she’d like to think it would be, but that’s a problem for her in the future, if she even gets that far, she thought she’d have more time-

_ Tell me something only the real Sylvain would know. _

_ Holy shit… can you put that down, maybe? Okay, fuck… when I was… shit… seven or eight? Mikklan shoved me down a well. I was trapped down there for hours before anybody found me, half dead of frostbite- _

The axe stays up. _ Your brother being an asshole is common knowledge- _

_ -I was fucking getting there! All of that, and I still cried so loudly that _ ** _Ingrid_ ** _ of all people heard me when I found out we were going to have to kill him, and I had to pretend that I caught the flu from some random chick in the village. Sufficiently embarrassing for your taste? _

She forces her grip on the weapon to relax, digging her fingers out from the leather binding that she’s wrapped the throat in, and slowly nods, lowering the relic to her side. _ Apologies. You caught me off guard. Matter of security, given- _

_ -everything five years back, with those weird people. Yep. Sure. I can see that. _ Sylvain’s eyes narrow. _ You okay? _

She nods. _ Absolutely. I just need some rest. And so do you, I think. It’ll probably be difficult to come by once we start marching. _

She doesn’t care whether he buys it or not. She just wants him to leave, so she can wrap up what she’s supposed to do, go find Hubert, possibly, burn down Enbarr for good measure, _ fuck- _

He’s halfway across the threshold, nodding an awkward goodbye, before she realizes she forgot something.

_ Oh, and Sylvain? _

_ Yeah? _

_ How well do you remember being trapped in that well? _

_ Pretty fucking vividly. Well. Parts of it. You know, frostbite and all that isn’t super forgettable, but then- _

_ -and how well do you remember earlier that day? The morning leading up to it? _

His lack of response betrays the answer.

_ Goodnight, Sylvain. _

***

She wakes with a start to a sharp knock at her door, punctuated and meaningful. The room is already lit by morning’s first light, and Edelgard swears under her breath, for she did not mean to sleep so late, the army is stretched thin enough as is in terms of preparations, she was supposed to review final preparations with Hubert at dawn-

_ May I come in, Lady Edelgard? _

Military meeting in pajamas it is, then. He’s seen her in worse.

Hubert stands in the hallway, carrying a tea tray, which is very thoughtful of him, and a small note.

_ That one isn’t mine. I did think we could discuss things over breakfast, though. _

She gingerly picks it off the platter, revealing a doodle of a sad face, accompanied by a request to “feel better” and Sylvain von Gautier’s curly signature.

She raises an eyebrow. Hubert bites his lip, and has the audacity to look somewhat bemused, which is both encouraging and never good.

_ He came to me as I was on my way here earlier and said you looked like, and I quote, “you were feeling off,” so I figured you could be afforded a little more sleep. It also helped that he seemed to feel guilty about something, and actually offered to help Ferdinand organize the final supply runs this morning to compensate. _

Unexpected, and a surprisingly positive development for him. _ Lysithea’s influence, undoubtedly. _

_ Oh? _Hubert’s tone is bemused, teasing, and it makes her feel vaguely defensive for some reason.

_ I like her. _

_ I know you do. _

She pauses, lifting a teacup off the tray. Perhaps it’s her lack of sleep, perhaps it’s his, but something about his tone of voice feels off. _ You say that like it’s a bad thing, Hubert. _

_ My apologies. I didn’t mean for it to carry judgement. _

_ So, you mean to hide your judgement? Let’s hear it then. Out with it. _

He raises an eyebrow. _ I’m more concerned with whatever Sylvain von Gautier did to upset you that he actually felt the need to apologize. _

_ Nope. You first, buddy. No deflecting here. _

Hubert takes a seat at her desk chair, pressing his lips together firmly. _ Forgive me, Lady Edelgard, but are you not doing the same? _

_ You know, Hubert, I thought perhaps Lysithea might make a remarkably good asset for your network. She’s incredibly talented, but she doesn’t rely on talent alone to carry her through her pursuits, and she more than has the intellect for espionage- _

Something in his expression shifts at that, like he’s taken tea with far too much lemon in it, and-

_ Wait. Hubert. You don’t mean to tell me that you’re jealous? _

He doesn’t meet her gaze, and it’s clear he’s trying to find a way to explain himself in any other manner but can’t quite find the words, and it’s suddenly so glaringly obvious that she cannot believe it took her this long to see what was so clearly apparent.

She pats the spot on the bed next to her, and he begrudgingly shifts over to sit at her side, still swallowing unspoken words.

_ Oof. Oh, Hubert. Alright. Okay. So, first, you are my oldest and dearest friend, and that will undoubtedly never, _ ** _ever_ ** _ change. _

_ Lady Edelgard, you’re allowed to have other friends. It’s important that you do. It’s just that- _

She nods, slowly, understanding. _ None of them have quite the, um. The history… that we do. _

Hubert nods.

_ That’s true. And it’s why she is- oh Hubert- _

_ -Then again, this is probably good for you. To have other friends capable of understanding, in a sense. But I will say, it certainly does worry me, given the shadow hanging over our heads as of late. _

Over their heads, wandering the monastery halls, haunting her waking nightmares. She can see his eyes now, if she focuses her own too hard, in Hubert’s own face, the gold draining into a dead grey, constantly searching, watching, _ waiting. _

_ Speaking of our shadow- _ She holds out the paper. _ Apparently, I made more of a lasting impression in Fhirdiad than I thought… or remembered. _

_ Go on. _

_ That’s really all there is to it, Hubert. _

Hubert’s expression is all confusion. _ What does that have to do with him? Other than Fhirdiad, by proxy? _

_ Oh, that’s right. Shit. Remind me to ask him if he wants a job if he ends up disinherited before the war is out- _

And with that, Hubert’s voice is no longer steady either. _ You can _ ** _not_ ** _ have told Sylvain von Gautier- _

_ -what kind of idiot do you take me for, Hubert? He made a lucky guess. It’s not _ ** _my_ ** _ fault the asshole has the subtlety of a demonic beast in a pottery store, waltzing in here asking you to take care of nefarious business off the clock with the help of half of our elite army! _

***

It becomes extremely apparent that no work is getting done today when her office door slams open within maybe an hour of actually settling in for the afternoon.

Felix Fraldarius brushes sweaty hair out of his face, marching in with little regard for actually knocking, and she appreciates his candor, but really, now is not the time for whatever thought is on his mind unless that thought is that there’s a siege outside, and really, now isn’t the time for that either.

_ -Okay, Sylvain is an asshole, listen, next time, just deck him in the face or something- _

_ Felix you’re an excellent soldier, but I’m busy. _

_ No, I’m serious, I really do need to apologize, because apparently, the asshole was in here on my behalf, and it’s _ ** _fine-_ **

** **

_ All right, well, it doesn’t _ ** _sound_ ** _ fine. Tell Sylvain to mind his own business. _

_ Bold of you to assume he listens to me. _

_ Felix, you, and occasionally Ingrid, and very rarely, it seems also Lysithea, are perhaps the _ ** _only_ ** _ people he listens to. _

Felix pauses in his anxious rampage through her office to actually look her in the eye at that, and for a moment she thinks she’s gotten through to him, and the subject is settled, but what he says instead, expression pinched with a strange sort of concern, is:

_ You look like shit. _

Wow. She probably does, she’s exhausted, she could see the rings under her eyes that morning, but wow. That’s… you know what?

** _You_ ** _ look like shit. _

Because Felix does too – she can see it in his face, he hasn’t slept well either, he’s bruised from over-training in a couple places, he hasn’t washed his hair today, and it’s sort of refreshing to have someone not treat her like porcelain, tiptoeing around propriety, and to be able to be an asshole right back at them without someone crumpling under the weight of such a massive breach of decorum.

He scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s no malice in it, just mild exasperation.

_ Are you seriously reviewing more battle plans after not fucking sleeping half the night? _

She slams the papers down. _ Yes, because I don’t exactly plan on getting people killed in Faerghus. _

_ That’s… good. _

_ Are you surprised? _

His voice is laced with sarcasm, but at least there’s some levity in there. At least one of them has some of that left, at this point. _ What, you don’t long to have people out there keel over for you in the middle of battle? _

_ No, here at Hresvelg incorporated we have a hot new perspective on nobility and leadership, which involves a responsibility to be certain that if any of my friends die, my orders aren’t the primary reason. _

_ Look, okay. _The anxious fidgeting resumes, and really, he’s going to have her climbing the walls herself in a second-

_ Spit it out, please. I really do not have time for this again. _

_ Sylvain. He was just- Look. I’m sure you know how messy things got after Duscur. For…fuck, for all of us. Even Ashe. _ He gives her a pointed look. _ And it doesn’t seem like you got out of it scot-free, either. _

_ Not really, no. But- _ she nods slowly, trying to temper her frustration, it isn’t Felix’s fault she’s busy, that she didn’t sleep, that she’s about to lead an army to kill his old friend en route to what could very well be a suicidal battle- _ it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t. You know. _

_ It’s just… I know what we’re going to find in Faerghus, I’m prepared for that. _ He pinches his nose between two fingers, inhaling deeply. _ As prepared as I can ever be, anyway… but he’s always sided- those two- _

_ You mean your father? …and Dimitri, yes? _

Felix’s voice is harsh and pained. ** _Everyone_ ** _ sided with my father. _

The words hang heavy in the room as the two of them stare at each other across the desk, and as Felix composes himself, tries desperately to find the words to explain what’s on his mind, she notes the irony of having this discussion over battle plans that amount, essentially, to Duke Fraldarius’ death warrant.

The forward scouts confirmed it, after all – Felix’s father is in Arianrhod.

_ …Everyone sided with my father, after Duscur. Not just Dimitri. Well, _ and Felix shrugs, gesticulating wildly, he’s going to knock something over, and she motions for him to sit before any damage can be done – _ especially Dimitri. But if anyone _ ** _shouldn’t_ ** _ have, it should have- no… look. That’s not important. And Sylvain didn’t, not really, but he didn’t want to take sides, because Ingrid was still wrecked too, and we- I think what he was getting at, is that… _

He turns to face her properly again, eyes hard and uncertain, as if weighing whether to speak his mind.

_ I mean, it would have been nice to have someone in my corner, sure, but it was pretty clear pretty quick that something was up. It wasn’t worth pushing the issue or getting all whiny about it. I had better things to be doing, and I figured there was probably a reason. And Sylvain had no business broaching the subject like that. _

_ It was weighing on you heavily enough that he seemed to think it was worth this inevitable outburst. _

_ Sylvain has his- _

_ -he knew it would upset you, and he got an earful from Hubert this morning over it, which he had to know was coming, and yet he still did it. So he must have thought it important enough. Does this… mean we were, what? _

_ Friendly. Ingrid and Dimitri would fawn over Glenn when we visited. You were quieter. I wasn’t a loud kid, either. I know you had an older brother too- _

(Rather, he knows she had several, all of whom were reported dead within the years following Duscur. He knows Glenn reminded her of one in particular. He knows she missed him, those years in Fhirdiad.)

_ I have work to do, Felix. _

(She knows he means to sympathize. That they could have been there for each other, after the world fell out from under the both of them, if she’d remembered. But their situations, though similar, cannot possibly be called the same.

She’s had him fight battles under the banner of the man who orchestrated Glenn’s death. Ionius’s. The others’. What would he say, if he knew?)

He leaves her to her work with a parting confession, though in typical Felix fashion, it’s a step above a murmur.

_ For what it’s worth, I never held it against you. You were one of the only people who never looked at me and saw the ghost of a dead man. _

***

It’s hard to think that she’s only now gotten acclimated to being back at Garreg Mach just in time to leave again.

They almost certainly won’t be returning before the war’s end. It’s highly likely some of them won’t be returning at all.

She should probably bring another pair of boots. Spring in Faerghus is still cold, overwhelmingly damp, and they’ll be marching through enough swamp that it might even be worth the added weight.

The sudden sound of two sharp knocks against her door very nearly causes her to knock the entire pack over, and shit, Lysithea thought she’d outgrown that sort of thing. It’s not like she’s scared of things that go bump in the night, so to speak: ghost stories, children’s tales, I mean, they’ve fought demonic beasts. She’s just always been a little jumpy.

And she’s never liked the dark.

The knocks come again, even more impatient this time, and she opens the door, off-hand buzzing with a spell _ just in case, _ expecting-

Actually, anything really, except the shrouded form of the Emperor’s Shadow.

_ Wh- _

_ Walk with me. _

She shakes her head, emphatically, because this is absolutely ridiculous. _ No. It’s the night before we march. Don’t you have work to be doing, or sleep to be having? _

_ We need to speak. _

_ I’m assuming this is about the time I’ve been spending with Edelgard- _

_ \- _ ** _Lady_ ** _ Edelgard- _

_ -did you have to wait until _ ** _right now_ ** _ to have this conversation? Could you not have threatened me, for instance, several months ago, when I first got here, or perhaps in the morning? _

_ I did think about that, but actually, your assumption is incorrect. We need to speak regarding other- _

_ -what do you want, Hubert? I don’t have the time. _

_ Do I scare you, Lysithea? _

Oh, for fuck’s sake. _ No. _

Hubert tilts his head, pressing his lips together. _ Really? I’m the right-hand man to an Emperor of a country that did unspeakable things to your family. My father was more than complicit. His blood – _ ** _their _ ** _ blood – flows in my veins. I use the same magic. I’ve been told that my demeanor, my manner, my callousness regarding the necessary death of… certain threats… is off-putting to some, and you in particular have plenty of reason to be wary. _

He meets her glare head-on, but she will not let him have the satisfaction of whatever this is.

_ Dark mages like you were the first people I made certain I knew how to kill. _

She can see the teeth in his sudden grin. _ Good answer. _

His humor, pleasing as it is, makes her no less impatient.

_ And you’re right, Lysithea. We march in the morning. There’s little time. Lady Edelgard and I spoke, and I realized I may have misjudged you at first. I thought if anything, if I were you, I’d harbor ill will towards her above all else. _

_ The point, if you would, Hubert. May I also remind you that though we seem to be the only ones awake, I do have neighbors. _

He waves a hand. _ I believe those who would be within earshot are having a slumber party elsewhere. A last hurrah, or something of the sort. Anyway, we both are of the very limited few that know we march not towards the conclusion of the war, but towards the beginning of the real one. _

Ugh. He deserves the eye roll for waiting until the last minute, but she beckons him inside, leaning against the back of the wall as he seats himself upon the window-seat.

_ You and I both have… unique investments in that state of affairs, shall we say. As well as information. It’s also come to my attention that should one of us fall before we have the opportunity to properly collaborate, that would be a tragic loss of knowledge. And, dare I say, a blow to our chances. _

_ A less morbid way of looking at that possibility is, had we spoken sooner, perhaps we could have had the opportunity to improve those chances. But regardless, there’s not much that we can do about that at this time. _

_ I’ve made preparations, of course, should something happen to me. Lady Edelgard is aware of this, and can undoubtedly make you aware of what I know. You should also be aware that I’d originally planned, as a last contingency, to make your old friend von Riegan- _

_ -you were going to drag _ ** _Claude_ ** _ into this? _

_ He’s intelligent, quick-thinking, and a masterful tactician. Plus, as I hear it, there’s nothing he can resist more than an unsolved mystery. There’s also the advantage of him currently residing far enough away from the continent that, should we all fail, he’d likely have survived unscathed. _

_ I see. _

_ But my point still stands. You are a unique source of information. If something were to happen to me, I feel more confident than I have in quite some time that Lady Edelgard would have at the very least a couple competent people at her side in my absence, moreso given that they have pre-existing knowledge of the enemy. But what if something were to happen to you? _

He sits there, in her window-seat, hands clasped together in his lap, obscured from the candlelight of her room by the curtains.

There’s a new moon this evening. What little starlight exist does his looming form no favors.

His blood really does shine through his eyes. She never realized how much they look like Tomas’s.

_ And how am I supposed to know, exactly, that I’m speaking to who I’m thinking of? _

The shadow in her window-seat smiles, the edge of his lip curling upward.

_ How about this? You give me an adequate reason to trust you, and maybe I’ll rack my memory. _

He thinks for a moment, and nods.

_ How about this? I recall this one time, in our first year, perhaps the first time I saw you, if I remember correctly… we were cutting church. You and von Riegan snuck into a classroom with an alacrity that suggested you were up to absolutely no good. He then spent the next three or so weeks unremittingly attempting to deflect by suggesting that Lady Edelgard and I were up to unseasonable things in the classroom down the hallway, all to distract from whatever we might have overheard- _

_ -first of all, that’s gross. Second of all- _

_ -and what we overheard was the distinctive voice of the great Claude von Riegan, unmistakably on the verge of tears. _

_ Guilty as charged. Okay, you’re Hubert. You win. _

_ We should probably pick something less long-winded, since this sort of thing is going to become increasingly necessary in the future. Also, for what it’s worth, I think about all we got done that afternoon was a plan to put a dead mouse in the air duct of the archbishop’s study. _

_ Wait. That was _ ** _you_ ** _ ??? _ She’d heard about it, they all had, _ shit _ , half the Golden Deer had gotten called into Seteth’s office that week for a discussion about “proper behavior becoming of young adults of stature,” _ even _ after alibis were corroborated.

His voice bristles with pride, and part of her wants to throw something at him at the smug smile on his face. But honestly, anyone willing to pull something like that off, especially knowing what the pair of them knew years ahead of the others about her lack of humanity (relative and literal), quite frankly, deserves to be a little smug about it.

_ That can be our little secret, I suppose. It’ll suffice for now, at least. _

_ Hmm. Very well. If you need a more shorthand one for me, I was quite close friends with Mercedes’ brother when we were children. Until, well. You know. They killed him. _

Hubert’s face contorts in apparent confusion. _ Emile von Bartels? _

_ Well, I knew him as Emile von Hrym. And speaking of which, seeing as we should sleep. _

He’s midway through opening his mouth as if to say something, but a pointed look is enough to make him think the better of it.

_ Anyway, I’ll try and note what I remember while we travel for you, just in case. Obviously, cyphered. But I’m assuming they were always cognizant of your attempts to track them, yes? _

_ You assume correctly. _

_ In that case, I’d start there. They were always coming and going from Hrym. _

_ That may not just be due to a base of operations, you see- _

_ -you may be forgetting that I was the last in my family to go under the knife. And there was nobody left in Hrym by then. They’d have long been done with whatever they were pulling there. _

_ Mmm. It’s more evidence, anyway, though the territory has been on our radar for a time. Do you have any proof? _

Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. _ Does the word “Shambhala” ring a bell? _

It turns out she does, judging by his reaction – he sits up fully before the word is even all the way off her lips, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat.

Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing, then.

_ Mages tend to have loose lips around children they assume are going to die untimely deaths. I just remember the word stuck in my head often. They spoke of it like a place. _

The smile she receives in return feels like being let in on a conspiracy, and her head spins in circles at the irony of a dark mage banging on her bedroom door, to speak of Shambala and death and running out of time, under such different circumstances.

But if he’s a ghost, so is she. So is Edelgard.

Garreg Mach is full of ghosts.

_ Oh, Edelgard was _ ** _right._ ** _ You’re going to be invaluable. _

***

Three days into the march, Lysithea discreetly pulls Ferdinand aside and hands him a sealed envelope.

_ Should I read the contents? _

_ Not while I yet breathe. Only posthumously. _

_ I’m afraid I do not understand, Lysithea. What precisely lies within this, that you’d entrust it to me, with such instructions? _

_ My updated will. _

He balks at the notion, though at least he has the decency to be subtle about it, only drawing momentary attention from the other soldiers.

_ You’re the Prime Minister, right? I’ve already ceded my House to the Empire. It’s just a matter of what, specifically, the Empire will inherit, should I pass before I make it back for official discussion in Enbarr. You understand, of course. _

Ferdinand’s face wrinkles, eyebrows drawn together, eyes focused and far-away. _ Perhaps… perhaps you speak… I understand, indeed. I must ask of you, though, that you not die. Hubert is as pessimistic on that front as they come, and we need not any more of that in this group. _

She snorts.

His voice holds that particular sincerity she’s come to expect from Ferdinand when he’s being serious, a kindhearted tone that she can barely bear. _ I should ask, though – is there a reason you don’t want it read? _

Lysithea nods, slowly. _ It would, perhaps, be easier to discuss in person, but… well. _

Ferdinand von Aegir smiles proudly, a soft gesture, though his eyes don’t boast the same ease as his grin.

_ You can trust me, _he says, and how odd, that she’d ever come to believe him.

***

They stop to bury the mangled remains of what used to be Dedue in the pouring rain.

(If it had just been Dimitri, if it had just been the soldiers, would they have bothered? Would they have-)

The King of Faerghus lies beneath six feet of blood-soaked mud, the grave only marked by a torn scrap of his cloak tied to a stick so they could find it later, should they live.

Dedue, on the other hand, or, well, the human remains mixed amidst the… not, that Lysithea had helped Petra try to piecemeal together, was buried several feet away, in a drier spot, beneath one of the trees that had sheltered the ground from the rainwater.

Ashe had practically _ insisted _ upon the placement _ , _and he was crying, so nobody could relent.

She helps Petra fill the grave in. He’s buried with a small embroidered handkerchief, tucked meekly into the scrap of that used to be a shirt pocket, perhaps, by Bernadetta.

_ I always saw him in the greenhouse, _ she says. _ This is the closest thing to actual flowers I can think of. _

But Dedue does not want for flowers, for Ashe, still red-eyed and visibly weepy, is more than willing to sacrifice his small book of pressed plants. The grave is marked with shabbily strung garlands of dried petals on spare bowstrings.

She cannot bear any more of this, and motions to return to help set camp with Petra, leaving the others to handle the grief.

_ I am not knowing him well either, Lysithea. But it was not right. _

It wasn’t.

_ Dying how he did… I am, sympathizing, to an extent, but we are of two differing situations. But abandoning the pair of them… _Petra shakes her head.

More dead children. Was this something Rhea arranged, or the others? But Rhea left them to die, the Church backed them into a corner and _ left them to die, _and she’s suddenly struck with the swelling realization, terrifying and relieving, that she’s made the right choice.

The Church is just as bad.

But Petra, lost in her own thoughts, just looks towards the camp and shrugs. _ Dimitri was being stubborn when he was not needing. He had to have been knowing what that was meaning for those subject to his choosing. _

Everyone grapples with the ghosts of that night. Petra’s is Dedue, she knows, because she struck the blow, because she fights for them and with them and by as free a choice as any, but can it really be called such when saying no echoes through twenty different diplomatic networks, reduces Brigid to a mere vassal at best, but more likely transforms it into a newer Duscur?

Ingrid and Ashe cling to each other, a couple of failed knights, for there is no worse dishonor, no betrayal higher a knight can bring than a regicide. Sylvain and Felix are uncharacteristically silent – for _ they _ killed him, he didn’t even acknowledge Sylvain, and it’s just another body at Felix’s feet at this point, just another corpse too stubborn to relent even knowing there was no hope, he _ could have surrendered but for his pride, but for his rage, but for- _

And Sylvain? Well, _ it happened again. _ The puddle of gore still sits, sloughed off, where the girls left it.

Caspar rubs Linhardt’s back as he tries not to reel at the blood everywhere, the number Dedue did on them all, the overwhelming horror of what happened, and the others float around in a stagnant haze, setting up tents, gingerly washing and dressing wounds, the Professor puts a kettle on over the fire for those that will inevitably find sleep hard to come by, but even their eyes are heavy, like they always used to be, with ghosts unseen.

Like they knew this was going to happen. Like they’d seen this story before, like they knew how it would end.

Tailtean is supposed to mean something, she thinks. Seiros – _ Rhea _ – killed Nemesis here, gutted him, extinguished his line. Loog won the Kingdom’s independence here, hundreds of years ago, right where his descendent now rots in the dirt.

There should be weight to the fight today, or it feels like there should, but all Lysithea can think as she watches the carrion birds descend to start picking at the fallen is the same echoing sentiment that haunted her for years.

The insignificant dead are often disregarded.

Some of them, undoubtedly, will be remembered in time. Edelgard will have monuments in Enbarr, should she prove victorious. Undoubtedly, perhaps someone will take pity and memorialize Dimitri. They can attempt, for what it’s worth, to treat Dedue respectfully in death.

But she looks at the bird-pecked corpses on the fields, and she thinks of the death toll in Remire village, the countless children lost in the Empire, and she remembers the cruel whispers of the mages, of the bodies of her siblings cut up and left to the wolves, and all she is left with is a line from an old play she cannot remember and a painful thought to accompany it:

_ Our monuments shall be the maws of kites. _

***

She sits on the stone by the spot where he fell.

The words he spat still spin through her mind, because while misinformed, there’s a certain truth to some of them, though of course, Dimitri didn’t know that. She cannot stop thinking of them, of the ghosts in his words. Her mother, or the twin phantom of her, whose death still lingers as a mystery, but-

“_ Slain by her own daughter” _

-she held the knife, to that one. And still, both women dog her footsteps like she never left them behind in the dirt, in Faerghus, in Enbarr, in the cold hard ground-

There were ghosts, too, in Dimitri’s eyes. How many did he kill, to get to her?

(How many could he not save, in the end? Do they haunt him, at all? Had he inured himself, too, to the brutal consequences of being a pawn in a battle between heaven and earth?)

But he would hold Duscur to her throat, _ Duscur, _ which happened as she was held in a cell and her family slaughtered and her life torn out from under her forever, everything wrenched asunder by the monsters who cut down the royal family one time, one _ day, _ while they ripped apart her body over the course of _ years _, butchered her siblings-

Kept some of them alive, utter wretches, as hostages. Left her father powerless.

Did this to hundreds of families.

Forced her to inherit all of it, because she had the audacity not to die down there, in the rotting foundation.

And he would blame her for Duscur, because of the convenient departure, because of some other falsified evidence, undoubtedly planted. Her mother, perhaps. Because he is incapable of self-rationality.

It makes her want to dig him back up and kill him herself, and yet, it’s an incredibly bitter, nauseating sort of frustration, that she hates him even so, because how could he? To let one’s self be _ willingly _controlled, even seeing that he was being left as nothing more than a discarded sacrifice, a mere means to buy time, all for misplaced hatred with no meaningful purpose? 

And to _ choose _ to indulge in such a thing?

She’s worked so, incredibly hard to set such emotions aside.

She looks at Ferdinand, sitting with a ghastly look in the rain, staring into the mud. He’d been the first one to wander over and ask if she was all right.

It would have been so easy, she thinks, to become the beast they wanted from her. It would still be so simple. She could rage, she could kill, she could feel like she was accomplishing something, avenging herself against a world that spat her back out, and all it would get her in the end would be a pile of bloody dirt once they were finished using her as a weapon.

Dimitri was deluded for thinking otherwise.

Is she deluded, though, for thinking otherwise?

She’s fighting an uphill battle, both ways. Loog won the War of the Eagle versus the Lion. Seiros cut Nemesis to pieces at Tailtean Plains.

But she bears Seiros’ crest, and Nemesis’s and the last Blaidydd lies beneath their feet, while Seiros herself runs on fleet foot back to Fhirdiad even now.

Yet, what then? The only precedent for what she would do afterwards is a string of corpses, left in the wake of those who walk in the darkness.

She is older than the others ever were. Ever will be. It is a strange thought, to leave the dead behind in life.

Lysithea is as well, now, as she walks over, sleeves caked in gore up to almost the shoulder. Edelgard shuffles over, making room for her on the stone to come sit, should she- yes.

Today’s battle was difficult for everyone, physically taxing and mentally draining. What happened was undoubtedly horrible, to be certain, but perhaps it is because she is built for battle, perhaps it is because she’s spent most of her remembered life preparing to paint her path in crimson, perhaps it is because she’s lived and seen worse, certainly, she’s been in her head somewhat this evening, but it doesn’t seem to have hit her quite as hard as it took Ferdinand, or Linhardt, or Petra, or of course, all those who followed them from Faerghus.

But Lysithea, too, seems to be handling things passably well, though her gaze flickers uncomfortably from person to person, from each teary-eyed individual to each dazed stupor.

_ Is something the matter, Lysithea? _

_ I don’t know what to do with this much grief, to be honest. Death is something I had to figure out how to deal with pretty early on, so… _

_ Ah. I… sympathize. I had a bit of trouble with the Professor after Jeralt’s passing. It’s like being inured to it, is it not? _

_ Sort of. Like, I do honestly feel bad, what happened today with Dedue was awful, but I just don’t know how to reconcile where that fits in with my experiences of… everything with everyone else’s. Does that make sense? _

_ On the scale of horrifying life experiences, you mean? _

_ I’ve seen worse, yes. That doesn’t mean this wasn’t horrible, but I don’t know how to be around people for whom this is the end-all-be-all of grief and horror right now. _

_ Well, you’ve come to the right rock. _

Lysithea snorts. _ Pretty macabre choice of rock, by the way. _

_ I just needed to think some things through. _

The other woman turns towards her, white hair bloodstained in a couple spots where she’s absentmindedly touched it, eyes pensive. _ Do you want my unsolicited opinion, then? Because I was actually close enough to hear some of what he was saying when he was crawling towards you. _

_ Perhaps. _

_ You don’t sound very certain. _

_ Tell me what’s on your mind, Lysithea, and I’ll explain what’s on mine. _

Or at least, an actionable piece of it. Perhaps Lysithea will have ideas, will be able to check her back into reality, will recenter her focus on what is important, on the plan and the goal and the purpose, because that’s what she’s always done since that day she walked into her quarters and took tea with her. 

How odd that this specter of Garreg Mach could now keep her so firmly grounded in life.

_ Putting his personal insults aside, I think we can firmly set that entire display as an example of unsound rationale. He clearly wasn’t thinking logically or using any kind of reason, and I’m not certain whether the Empire and Kingdom insist on this as well, but in the Alliance, we used to consider that a crucial hallmark for even minor lords. Not to mention, you know… a king. _

_ I don’t dispute that. But, as you’re aware, there are larger players in this game, and based on that speech, I think they had a strategic interest in setting Dimitri against me, specifically. _

Lysithea raises an eyebrow. 

_ When I lived in Faerghus with my uncle and mother, I was re-abducted by my uncle shortly before Duscur. My mother, I believe, left slightly later. I think the timing was such that she may have been implicated, because she survived the massacre, and obviously I left earlier. I suspect Arundel had someone leave Dimitri a breadcrumb trail. _

_ Oh. _

_ And, of course, when the woman who looked like my mother turned up dead, Arundel could easily retaliate by pointing him towards me. I suspect that was the final straw. _

_ I’m sorry, Edelgard. _

_ Don’t be. You don’t have any reason to be. It was far more gratifying to kill her, believe me, at that point. I made my peace with her loss years back. _

_ Well, in that case, that’s all very well and good, but honestly, I find his actions beyond insulting to me personally. _

_ What do you mean, Lysithea? _

_ Look, if anyone really _ ** _should_ ** _ want to kill you based on those people’s horseshit, it’s me. _

She’s silent. Does-

_ And I don’t. I really… I don’t, Edelgard. _

At least not any more. What does she want, then?

Lysithea inhales deeply, tilting her head down towards the dirt, where the blood stains the soil. _ So, all of that? That’s no excuse. _

_ I… I mean, I’m not excusing it, but it still eats away at me. Partially because of what you just said, but also because, as you also said, we - you and I, and Hubert too, and also Dimitri - we’ve all been shaped by them, used to the extent that they could. And for Dimitri… there was nothing I could do to save him. And so, the very least I could do was… _

Lysithea’s face, startled, softens, confused. _ Are you crying? _

She shakes her head, vehemently but slowly, lips pressed firmly together, even though she _ knows _ she can feel something wet roll down a cheek. _ The Edelgard who shed tears died many years ago. _

A hand reaches out under the proxy of fixing her hair, to very unsubtly wipe whatever is on her face off with still-messy fingers, replacing it, perhaps accidentally, with a smeared trace of blood.

_ Everything that’s happened… it’s all just part of the ebb and flow of history. I can’t afford to look backwards, Lysithea. _

She reaches to wipe away the smeared blood on her face, her cheek still warm from the gesture, from the frustration, from the exhaustion of the day.

They sit together on the damp stone, in battle-worn armor, watching the carrion birds pick away at the corpses lying in the mud, on the sprawling battlefield before them both. The kites pull at sinew like hungry rats in the dark, but without the fervency.

Lysithea’s voice is a soft murmur. _ I think the difference between the two of us, Edelgard, is that you respond to that by focusing- _ and she pauses, lip partially bitten, as if uncertain she might offend, which is so unlike her, she always speaks her mind - _ admirably so, but on a future that you’ll set up but never see. While I… refuse to let my eyes stray from the present moment at any given time. _

The corpse beneath the ground, a scant several feet from them, does not speak. It lies there, a now-fragment of the past, along with the other fallen soldiers, its dead eyes staring into the blood-soaked dirt.

Right where they always have.

_ Nothing good comes of dwelling on the past. _Because it doesn’t. Look where it got Dimitri, look to what lengths it drove the monster they’re chasing, and look at the pair of them, living proof of the what the Agarthans would do for the sake of their own past grudges.

So what good would come of it, for them?

Lysithea shakes her head, incredulous, a half grin forming at the edges of her mouth. 

_ You say that as we sit here on probably the most historically meaningful battleground on the continent, waging a campaign that might have been unnecessary had the Church not gotten full jurisdiction over the historical record. Decisions made with an understanding of the context of history- _

_ Lysithea, you know what I meant. I’m speaking about ours in particular. _

Because it’s true. She’d have to be blind to not notice how the other woman needled at it, the past couple months in Garreg Mach, this thick murky layer of grime binding the two of them together.

They’ve been teetering on the edge of talking since the march began, hovering over the brink of falling into something unfathomable and awful and terrifying that sticks in the pit of her stomach with both longing and revulsion.

Like staring into a mirror and seeing a face that isn’t yours any longer, and having to reckon with that fact all over again. 

There’s a deep inhale from her right, a heavy breath, as Lysithea slowly cleans her hands with a small purple handkerchief, wiping away the blood from her fingertips, trying to scrape pieces out of her nail beds.

_ But we both do anyway. I can see it in your eyes, sometimes, when you look at me. _

Maybe it’s true. They’ve always had eyes for each other, ever since those early school days, where Lysithea haunted her like the memory of something forgotten, flickering in and out of existence like the voices and faces of the broken bodies of the others she carried with her to that place, that she still struggles to put down, where Lysithea glared daggers at her in the passing halls like she was a beast that needed putting down, like she was the thief who stole her childhood, instead of the guilty recipient of everything gained.

Now, the glances are less vindictive and more laced with melancholy, like there’s something tragic in the lines of Edelgard’s face, in her eyes, in her hair, but without the pity she cannot bear from those who’ve no idea of what their lives were like. No, not pity, and not just sadness. There’s something else there, but she cannot place it, and she does not give herself the liberty to look at Lysithea too long, because it brings up too many feelings she cannot be bothered to sift through - the guilt, the pride, the pain, the _ fear _.

There’s a longing, there, to know and be known. She cannot understand why. Perhaps it is simply, as Hubert said, because she understands.

_ Sometimes when I look at you, Lysithea, it’s not just my own past I’m confronted with. _

_ What do you mean? _

_ It feels stupid to complain about such things. But, sometimes I would watch you walking the halls of Garreg Mach, making your own choices, firmly in control of what little time you had, and yet so eerily similar to me in many respects. It was like being haunted by a past that I could never have, a life that I was never given the choice to live. _

Lysithea doesn’t respond, and for a moment, she’s worried she’s completely botched the whole thing, she should have just kept her mouth shut, of course there’s no point in complaining about such things to _ her _ of all people, why would she even-

_ I was worried you were going to say I reminded you of someone. _

_ Oh. _

She’d never considered- I mean, she had, but. Lysithea is her own person, and she’s more than capable enough of haunting Edelgard in her own way. 

_ Most of my sisters were older. I was eighth in line. _

_ I know. I was the eldest, actually. _

_ If I don’t remind you of someone, Lysithea, what do you see when you look at me like that? _

_ When I look at you, _ Lysithea pauses, staring as a bird hops closer, pecking experimentally at the stake in the ground, _ sometimes, Edelgard, it’s as if I still see the specter of the future that was taken from me. I don’t know how to stop seeing it. _

For the first time, they talk about what happened, if only a little. Nobody can hear them now. There are no shadows here, on the Tailtean Plains.

Only the unthinking dead, the haunted living.

***

Rhea sets the city on fire.

Fhirdiad burns, a churning conflagration of smoke and crumbling buildings, of clashing soldiers and desperate, stampeding civilians, who flee in droves to find the Church is holding the exits fast.

Her lungs are full of smoke as she rushes up ahead, accompanied by the other foot soldiers, towards the howling beast at the palace gates of a city she’s never seen, that she’s certain she’ll never see, that she may never live to see the wreckage of.

Edelgard and the air forces have gone ahead to keep her occupied, to clear a path for the cavalry, because their approach plan has clearly gone up in the flames that have consumed the city streets.

And then they see her, locked in combat with the Immaculate One herself, backed up by Ingrid and a couple others, and it’s a straight shot over, she’s almost in casting range, if she could just get a little farther-

An armored figure rounds the corner, eyes blazing with fervor and lightning and visceral anger, blonde hair sticking to her forehead and neck from the heat of the flames, blocking the way forward with a sword and a bitter stare of desperation.

Thunderbrand rumbles with an uncanny light.

But just as she raises a shaking hand, as the woman before her raises the divine blade, Catherine crumples to the ground, an elbow striking her firmly in the base of the skull, a second arm looping around to catch the front of the body, and the other knight winces at the heat of the metal armor on forearms bared only for archery guards.

The sword clatters to the ground, still visibly twitching. Like it’s hungry.

Shamir looks down at the unconscious body in her arms.

_ Idiot. Take your blinders off. She’d have just left you to die here. _

They don’t have time for this, the others still need them, so they make another dash for it - the smoke is the heaviest around the palace approach, she can feel herself gasping, she’ll be coughing up who knows what come morning, but she’s just cresting into range now-

_ Lysithea! _

Sylvain’s voice comes from her right, and she turns just in time to see him wince, pressing a sword into her hands with his own bloodied and blistered, like it _ ate away _ at them-

Thunderbrand is heavy in her grasp, but she grips it firmly as the various branches twitch with an eerie frustration.

The dragon howls and rails and writhes, lashing and spitting at Edelgard above everyone else as she stares at it, near gasping for air, putting one foot in front of the other, and thinks how strange the wheel of fate turned out to be, in the end.

Perhaps everything - the brutality, the horror, all of it - was worth it.

If only for this.

And she takes the hilt and strikes the beast in the side with all the might she has left to give, sinking Thunderbrand deep into the scaled flesh. The blade recoils at her touch, her hands foreign, like it can sense the subtle wrongness of the crest below the surface, the falsehood of her blood, but it does its job, and the thing before her _ screams. _

She’s pretty sure she’s screaming, too. It _ hurts, _like the stupid thing pulls something out of her and sets all her nerves alight. 

But it monster’s attention is drawn towards her, for that crucial moment, even discounting the small wound she left in the side of it, leaving an opening for Edelgard to come down hard with Amyr, to take one good strike, that blow they so desperately needed-

And with that, it’s over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration at the end was a beautifully done commission by Alice (@itsbabypears on twitter), please go check them out. They have some lovely other FE art, as well as beautiful original paintings.

Neither of them fight on the front lines of the second war.

On paper, there isn’t one.

Edelgard takes the throne of the newly unified Fodlan, and furiously throws herself into her work. She’s appointed advisor to the Emperor (for her military service and for House Ordelia’s loyalty through the years) and Hubert is granted an extended leave of absence to take care of family matters. The others disperse, or, at least, they purport to.

Sylvain and Felix forsake their noble titles to pick up mercenary work. Lysithea has them put on her payroll.

Ingrid and Ashe take oaths of knighthood to an Emperor rather than a King when Edelgard sits them down and explains what she knows about what _truly _happened in Duscur.

The boy who nearly killed her on the docks of Derdriu is the one to drag in the first figure who held her down on a table as a child. He does this while traveling, with the man he elopes with.

(They decided to visit Hrym, first. Something about the mountains simply called to them, they claimed, despite Linhardt's well-known hatred of hiking.)

She visits Fodlan’s Locket only once: to greet the arrival of the Almyran Ambassador who'd be staying in Enbarr while the two countries arrange for a peace treaty. Just as a matter of security, of course. And also, so she could break the news regarding the ambassador's identity to Hilda in person, who nearly gut her with an axe before firmly keeping her mouth shut, because Lysithea had the foresight to bring her an apology gift.

Seeing Marianne was… difficult, to say the least. She’s shaken, and Lysithea didn't dare press for details, not while within earshot of Holst, who was thrilled to have someone too polite to tell him he’s being overbearing to fuss over. But it’s pretty clear that everything nasty seems to boil down to unwanted crests, these days, and scholars who won’t leave well enough alone.

Still, it was nice to see her smile.

Hilda, of course, made it her personal _ responsibility _to show the Ambassador around the country, with the assistance of some of the more decorated Imperial troops. Starting with Margrave Edmund’s estate, because she had unfinished business there, but of course, the mountains near Hrym and Ordelia are always lovely this time of year.

(Claude finds this massively amusing, she discovers, when he tells her about it during his brief forays into Enbarr itself.)

Off paper, though, she and Edelgard strategize over tea, over walks through the palace’s gardens, over late nights in its many gorgeous libraries. Lysithea walks Enbarr’s halls, every inch of the bloodstained dungeons, the prison cells, the makeshift laboratories. 

The palace gates will not keep them out forever, nor will playing coy, operating through spiderwebs of half-truths and guerrilla agents, speaking only to assure that they’re _ still them _. They don’t expect them to.

She fights, of course, when they come for Edelgard.

(They forget about their rejected test subject, because of course they do. Perhaps they’ve expected her to have died already. She knows she has at most a couple years left in her.)

The Flame Emperor and the Wisdom of the Empire choose to fight exactly once, at the conclusion of it all, a fool’s gambit riding on the sacrifice of a meaningless memory to bait out Arundel, to fight him on their terms. House Ordelia is long dead. There is nothing there but ghosts.

Javelins of light strike earth once, twice, countless times more, leaving behind a scorched crater where once a rumor of a white-haired girl dwelled.

And thus dispensed, Edelgard was finally able to move without fear of retaliation. Lysithea, too, could come with her.

(Nobody lived in House Ordelia, anymore. They’d long ceded the land to the Emperor.)

It is strange, to stand before a corpse and realize that you can live only now that someone else has died. 

Edelgard does not wear her crown, that day. Her hair falls loose and long over her shoulders, flowing over her armor. It is unspeakably beautiful, and a knife twists further in Lysithea’s gut, because the world is never, _has_ never, been fair. 

Arundel lies before them, bleeding and crushed beneath the blunt end of Edelgard’s spiked axe, and they stand there for about half a second before the words finally come spilling out of them both.

There’s a confession from Edelgard of everything. What he did to her, to the others. There’s a confession from Lysithea of a different kind.

_ But if I only had more time, I would devote it all to you, it’s not fair, Edelgard, not fair to either of us, if only I had more time- _

Edelgard looks at her strangely, and for the first time, it’s like a veil is lifted, like there are no ghosts in her eyes, and Lysithea wants to cry, because it’s unfair how long it took them to get to this point, because she has never more strongly longed to see what the future might hold.

Her voice is soft, pleading, _desperate_, even, as she reaches for Lysithea’s face to cradle it in her hands, setting the axe down, not caring where it falls, as long as it’s not on them.

_ We will _ **_make _**_you more time._

Edelgard’s lips are soft against her own. She can taste blood in the kiss, and it’s only then that she’s not sure whose it is, but even so, she wants to curl up in this moment forever.

***

The room Edelgard has picked for her overlooks the gardens, with natural lighting and wide windows and an open-air balcony, and she suddenly realizes how lovingly it was chosen, to let the light in, to give the illusion of endless space, to remind her that when she wakes somewhere that has not yet fully become familiar that it is not somewhere she is trapped.

They continue to take tea, to converse well into the evening about new policy and exciting ideas, about fancy Imperial sweets and Dorothea’s latest opera. They walk the vast gardens of Enbarr’s palace, and she tells Edelgard about the forests on the outskirts of Ordelia territory, of all the interesting wildflowers that used to grow there.

She sits at Edelgard’s side through policy meetings, as she always has, but there’s something comforting about the fact that she can let the edge of her finger linger against the other woman’s when they brush hands, how Edelgard is more free with her smiles, how they permit themselves now to do small things for each other openly - to make an extra cup of tea, to persuade the Minister of Finance to break for lunch a half hour early, even.

But she has just under two years left, if she’s lucky. Edelgard, a few more after that. She watches the Prime Minister beam at the letters he receives in the mail, neatly laid-out sentences scrawled in dark ink, and the injustice of it all tugs at a pit in her heart.

She can’t indulge in the luxury of fantasizing about forever.

***

She has Ferdinand summon the others to a meeting when Annette uncovers the document during the restoration of Fhirdiad.

Ingrid sits calmly at the oak cabinet table, hair neatly done up in the same braids she’s worn since the war began. It’s a fitting style for a knight, and Edelgard has complimented her often on the practicality of the design. She’s glad the woman never sacrificed that piece of herself.

(She’d heard the news, of course, because her knight was on duty when the letter arrived from Count Galatea. Her brother’s youngest child bore a crest. There would be no more terse, strained letters, after that.

It was hard to tell if the tears came from relief or pain).

Sylvain hurries through the door with the decency to look somewhat abashed for being late, though she can detect a sense of concern in his expression at the separate summons.

_ So, Edelgard, _he says, pulling out a chair, resting his elbows against the table, fingers interlaced with a restless energy that indicates either he’s gotten in a spat, or more likely, something has agitated him.

She flashes Ferdinand a quick look, as if to ask, _ what did you tell him? _Ferdinand simply looks towards his hands, innocuous as ever, and she silently longs to throttle him.

_ Any particular reason you needed me here twenty minutes early, an invitation that I am just now discovering was also extended to Ingrid? _

Ingrid’s gives her a sharp glance, confused and questioning.

Notably, Felix Hugo Fraldarius is not expected to be here for roughly that long.

She clears her throat. _ Actually, there is. _

_ Great! Because I thought, maybe, it was about my old man- _

Ferdinand snorts, and she outright glares at him. _ What, Edelgard? None of this business has to do with his father, but- _

_ It’s not funny, Ferdinand. _ She inhales deeply, waiting until she has full command of the table’s attention before continuing. _ They recovered Dimitri’s will from the ruins of Fhirdiad. Apparently, it was quite well hidden. _

_ Oh. _ Ingrid looks visibly uncomfortable, Sylvain nods absent-mindedly, like it makes sense, like he knows what she’s going to say, like he’s not thinking back to that day in the rain. _ I’d presumed we weren’t mentioned at all, given the terms we left him on. _

_ Yeah, _ Sylvain adds, _ given that I kind of killed him, but I doubt he had time to change the will after that. But, you know, I figure I probably wasn’t there in the first place, given- _

Ingrid slams a fist down on the table. _ Can you, for five seconds, behave yourself? _

The question hangs in the room for a moment, and she considers moving them along, because really, they do not have much time before Felix gets here, but Sylvain inhales deeply, resting his face in his hands. 

_ Look, I’m sorry, I’m just… _

Ingrid pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers. _ I know, Sylvain. _

Even she sees his face, sometimes, when she sleeps, these days. It’s funny to think she had another brother that she could not remember until he was already lost.

They took him from her, too.

Edelgard clears her throat, softly, as unobtrusively as possible. _ Neither of you happen to know if Dimitri had any other relatives that survived the Tragedy of Duscur, other than Rufus? _

Both shake their heads.

She turns towards Sylvain. _ Do you happen to know if there’s a possible chance he could have a bastard? You never took him into town with you? _

Sylvain coughs, Ingrid sputters, turns towards him, and very firmly says, _ I certainly hope not. _

_ Yeah, that’ll be a no from me. Highly doubt it, on all fronts. _

Fuck. Well, that makes things both simple and incredibly, bitterly complicated.

_ Here’s the issue, in that case. _

Ingrid’s eyes are keen, calculating. _ This is about the inheritance of the throne, then? _

_ Correct. And since there aren’t any living Blaiddyds, we need the throne officially ceded by next of kin. _

Sylvain looks confused. _ I mean, obviously bloodline ties supercede all else, but wouldn’t a lack of one make you next in line by marriage, as his step-sister? _

_ He specifically disinherited me from any claim I might have to Faerghus through my mother some time during the first couple years of the war. _

But Ingrid, who’s managed to put the pieces together, murmurs _ oh no. _

_ Dimitri named his successor, in the event that he should die without a blood heir, to be Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, “for his loyal service to the throne and treatment of him as family.” _

Sylvain turns to Ingrid, nervously, who has her head resting blankly on the palm of one hand. _ Oh shit, well, great, now we get to explain that to grumpy. _

Ingrid’s voice is somewhat vacant. _ So, what does this mean, Edelgard? The crown passes to one of his uncles? _

_ Lord Rodrigue never formally disinherited Felix before he died. _

_ Excuse me? _

_ He never _ ** _what?_ ** _ Did I just hear you correctly? _

_ You did. I’m not certain if it was because he believed he’d be able to rectify the issue himself on the battlefield, or because he thought he’d have more time later, but either way, it was never formally settled. Felix is- _

_ Why didn’t this come up until now? _

_ It was never relevant. Felix made it explicitly clear to me that he had no intention of taking his position as Duke Fraldarius, and even if he had chosen to, once we discovered it was possible, the inheritance dispute due to his involvement in the invasion of Faerghus would have been a bloody mess. _

She’s gotten to know the three of them - learned the lines of their faces, the way their eyes move, where their minds wander to, in quiet moments - to know roughly what they’re both thinking in this instant.

Ingrid, eyes sad and distant, is torn. On the one hand, there’s a sadness there, having finally seen eye to eye with her old friend, knowing something like this will undoubtedly rub salt in old wounds. In that same regard, she knows Ingrid knows, too, what it’s like to be tossed aside by family, once it’s clear you’ve drawn a line between how far you’re willing to let them drag you by the crest into social niceties, into duty and service and obedience.

But on the other, she can see the shadow of a thought cross Ingrid’s mind.

_ If Glenn had lived- _

She can’t pretend to speak for any of them, other than herself - but if he had, Ingrid, you wouldn’t be in this room, at this table, wearing neatly-trimmed hair in a short braid across the back. 

Edelgard doesn’t want to imagine where she’d be, instead. 

Sylvain, outwardly, would at least feign to be torn, in his worse, more self-deprecative days, and she can see the shadow of the crass temptation flicker past his eyes to make some deliberately uncouth joke, to deflect from the grim weight of the situation with a comment about how _ he’s fucking the King of Faerghus. _ How Ingrid could have been. 

But he doesn’t try to hide how he winces. 

He’d been disowned properly, when he chose to run off after the war, when the others finally convinced him to leave. She knows he knows that bridge was easier to burn for Felix, but the road to it was far bloodier.

They all know Felix, of all people, prefers that the dead stay in the ground where they belong.

Enbarr has a habit of spitting out corpses, of winding their arms around your neck until you can stare them in the eye yourself, tear their nails out of your skin, confront them and march onwards.

Luckily for all of them, Felix feigns it the best of the five.

He’s more than willing to throw the title away without a second thought, draw any loose ends of the war to a quick and awkward close on a piece of parchment, but she’s come to learn to read that particular brand of body language partial to him as well - the way his muscles seize up at mention of the late Duke, the barely-masked flash of disbelief in the way he screws up his eyes, how they flicker from Ingrid to Sylvain, as if asking - _ did you know? _

She leaves him to the pair of them afterwards, staying in a too-large conference room with a far-too-silent Ferdinand, a will, and a peace treaty.

Ferdinand had to burn all the old furniture in his new office when they returned to Enbarr. He took it out into the fields one day, set it all aflame, and bought a new desk from his personal fund. 

_ I am, myself, sometimes amazed at the fact that his father could suffer from such an excess of noblesse oblige that it killed him, while my father was exactly the opposite. _

_ I didn’t realize you believed there could be any excess when it comes to nobility. _

_ We’ve seen plenty of terrible things in our time, Edelgard. Do not mock me for admitting this was one of them. _

_ I apologize, Ferdinand. _

_ You need not do so. But regardless, I meant to speak to you of something else, of late. How have you been faring, since the conclusion of the most recent- _ he gesticulates wildly, grimacing, _ round of… business? _

_ Quite well. _Arundel’s dead, Hubert is due to return soon from Shambhala, and they can all move on with their lives, what little left of them they have.

_ Forgive me, Edelgard, but something else has been bothering you, has it not? _

_ ...Nothing that concerns the affairs of the state. _

_ I was not asking as befits my position as Prime Minister, but rather, as a friend. You seem out of sorts. _

She’s felt it, too, and it doesn’t make _ sense _, she should be happy - she’s finally free, of warmongering and looking over her shoulder and the heavy burden of vengeance that’s weighed her down since his father threw it on her shoulders when she was nine.

She doesn’t know what to do with peace, or with affection, or with-

_ It’s. _ She pauses. _ It’s a personal matter. _

_ Ah. _ Ferdinand rises, slowly, to put a kettle on. His legs have recovered, mostly, from the damage done to them during the siege of Enbarr, but the pain still lingers on cold mornings. _ Does this explain, perhaps, why Miss Ordelia has seemed out of sorts these past couple days as well? _

Nothing escapes him, does it? She wouldn’t have hired him if it had, she supposes. _ Well, yes. I kissed her, and then later, I panicked. And I panic still, even though I feel, quite deeply, that I am very happy with things as they stand. _

She kissed Lysithea, and life marched on as it usually did, but with more occasional kissing. And it’s _ nice, _ she enjoys every minute of her company, truly she does, but she cannot shake the overwhelming feeling of _ danger _ that comes with every gentle touch, every press of lips to her own, the _ fear _ she felt the first time Lysithea sat on the dressing sofa in her room and Edelgard ran her fingers down the length of her jaw, down under her collar of her silk shirt, to feel the edge of old scar tissue jutting out from her left shoulder-

-it was soft, so soft, and her eyes were wide and she had a hand wrapped around Edelgard’s hip and another curled in her hair, Lysithea doesn’t like people touching her hair-

_ Edelgard, our fathers - I speak of Hubert as well, obviously - shaped all three of our lives with violence. Excessively so, that we found it necessary to kill them for the pain they inflicted - on us as well as on others. You bore the brunt of that pain, so it then makes sense that it would take you the longest to learn to love in spite of it. _

She’s never thought about Ferdinand, bright beaming von Aegir, struggling to admit he cared about anyone the way she saw Hubert grapple with it. But perhaps she’s given him too little credit once again. Between an eventual political marriage and forced loyalty to a monster, he was never free to choose, either, as a child. Flames, the first choice he probably ever made for himself was to stay by her side after she gutted his father-

His voice takes on that whimsical tone as his eyes flicker between the kettle and the door, lips curved in a faintly cracked smile. _ Hubert did mention, as a matter of fact- _

_ -I wish to know nothing of what you and Hubert get up to in your spare time, thank you very much. _

Aghast, Ferdinand pulls the kettle away from the small flame and begins to pour. _ This is relevant! _

She rolls her eyes, accepting a cup when offered as he sits now by her side, pushing the war documents out of the way of any possible tea-stains.

_ The two of you kissed, and you did not panic. _

_ I’m shocked that you managed to convince him to shed a state secret, Ferdinand. _

She gets a wink for that, and oh _ no. I am confident, and my apologies for saying so Edelgard, you shall have to forgive me later, but I am confident that in one respect, between the two of us, I managed to come out- _

_ -don’t you fucking dare- _

_ -on top. _

_ -did I not _ ** _say _ ** _ I did not wish to know- _

Ferdinand laughs, and she smiles at the sound, shaking her head - it was a stupid joke - and that brings a genuine grin to his face as well, and for some reason the levity actually makes her feel a little better, after the weight of the morning.

_ Now, perhaps it is precisely because you care, and do so deeply, in this case, and what's more, you allow yourself to do so, that it is difficult for you? _

_ What do you mean? _

_ Edelgard, you are an exceedingly private woman. You held a military command for years, reluctantly, which did not permit you to long for things for yourself. It is no wonder that such a skill, unpracticed, does not come easily to you. _

Is that it? This is such a strange conversation to be having with Ferdinand, of all people, because she recalls giving the same speech, years ago, to _ Hubert, _and the irony of this makes her head spin. To be lectured on such a thing by-

No, he’s right. She knows he’s right, and he’s a friend, and a good man at that.

_ This is by no means a criticism! I do not judge you for it. I have simply had practice unlearning such mindsets myself, and you are not the first I’ve seen it in since. _

Intriguing. _ Who was? _

_ Hubert. I thought that was fairly obvious. _

She snorts into her teacup, and Ferdinand grins.

_ Well, perhaps you might accompany me to the opera tonight. This shall be our dear Dorothea’s last run, before she moves on to greener pastures and grander things indeed, and I do not doubt she shall have superior advice for you on affairs of the heart. _

***

Hubert returns from his sabbatical on a foggy day, the courtyard barely visible through the thick clouds. Lysithea smiles to see him in one piece, moves to stand from her spot on the bench in the garden, to walk him in, to see the look on Ferdinand’s face, on Edelgard’s, but he shakes his head, and takes a seat beside her with his saddlebag.

_ How was clean-up? _

_ More cathartic than anything in a long time, I believe. Enbarr was manageable, in my absence? _

_ Bar the occasional piece of melodrama. _

_ Do you have an hour or so, this afternoon? I found something that might be of interest to you. We could chat over tea. _

_ Is this something that also concerns the Emperor? She’s wrapped up in treaty negotiations well into the evening. _

Hubert frowns, confused. _ Almyra? _

_ Brigid. Almyra was tit-for-tat assistance with our little problem, in exchange for sparing the life of the crown prince. Petra, however, would like to posit the argument that she’s saved Edelgard’s life personally on at least four separate accounts, even while a hostage of the former Imperial powers. _

_ Ah. _

_ Almyra is backing Brigid. _

_ I see I missed all the fun. But no, this concerns you, not Her Majesty. _

Tea, Lysithea discovers, also regrettably concerns Linhardt, who is already seated in Hubert’s small secondary office when she arrives, lounging across the dark cushions of the couch in the corner. He raises an eyebrow as she enters, clutching a cup between two slender hands.

_ I hope you know, Lysithea, that I’m never going anywhere like that again. _

She rolls her eyes, pulling a chair up to the coffee table as Hubert fusses with two more cups and a stack of papers. _ You didn’t have to go anywhere. _

_ No, I certainly did. Someone had to keep those idiots alive, and quite frankly, I wanted to make sure he didn’t miss anything. _

Hubert sets down the other two cups, pulling up another chair to join the pair of them.

_ Hubert. What, specifically, concerns me - but not Edelgard - that you found while… _

She pauses, searching for the right way to phrase the matter, before Linhardt drolly chimes in -_ at Shambhala…? _

_ Yes. That. And, while we’re asking, also concerns him? _

Hubert gingerly lifts the stack of parchment that he’d pulled from his saddlebag.

_ The inhabitants of that place kept… extremely detailed records, I believe. _

The room grows cold. She can feel the faint, unpleasant buzz in the nerves of her fingertips, the way she always has, ever since, when her body is overwhelmed.

_ Encrypted, of course, but that’s no issue. The problem is synthesizing something meaningful from the pieces of what remains. _

_ Records. _Her voice rings hollow in her throat. The word sounds flat in the enclosed space of Hubert’s office.

Linhardt nods, nervously tapping the tip of his finger against the handle of his cup, staring at Lysithea, like he can’t quite look at Hubert. Like he’s seen what he’s holding, and he doesn’t particularly want a second glimpse.

Hubert’s voice is still firm, but the edge that’s usually there seems to have blurred away. Or perhaps her hearing has gone hazy.

_ Of their various experiments involving forcible implantation of crests. The vast majority, but not all. The good news is- _

The good news is, between the three of them - possibly even with two - if there is anything to be done for her, for Edelgard, they can use the pieces of what was done to work out a process by which to remove the foreign agent in her bloodstream.

-_ I believe that between yourself and Linhardt, you’re intelligent enough to work out a countermeasure with what is written here. The only issue is, of course, some of the records will be undoubtedly familiar to you. _

Linhardt rubs at his eyelids. _ There was nothing on Edelgard in there, as far as we found- _

Hubert shoots him a glare. _ She was never kept near there. _

It takes about three weeks of brutal, nasty work, of slogging through horribly familiar names, of years of torment and pain and horror reduced to a couple pages of shorthand before they put the pieces together.

She has a deep, sinking suspicion she’s won their long-standing argument. It’s confirmed one night, after the pair of them discover what happened to her youngest brother, and decide to put the research on a 12 hour hold to get moderately shitfaced. 

Linhardt looks up from the mop of his hair, splayed out across the desk, and mumbles that maybe he’d do the same thing, if he were her, and he doesn’t even _ have _ any siblings.

_ Well, neither do I. _

_ Lysithea, how do you do…. _ He gestures slowly, sweeping his arm vaguely towards the papers laying across the room... _ this? How do you live with this? _

She doesn’t have the energy to handle drunken Linhardt, right now, let alone borderline _weepy__, _ drunken Linhardt, and so she stumbles to her feet, or at least, she tries to, but they’re not really working very well right now.

_ Well, better than dying early and giving them the satisfaction, I suppose. I’m... not certain what other answer you want from me. _

_ I’m not suited for battle. I thought science was - that maybe I could do some good with my research. And I like understanding things. But then I look at all of this. And I realize how much in common I had, with people who did- _

_ -I’m stopping you right there. You… you picked my body off the ground at Derdriu, so. Yeah, you’re a bit… whatever the opposite of empathetic is, at times, but at least… look. None of those mages had any sort of conscience. You clearly have **some**, in that head of yours, or you wouldn’t be here helping me with this bullshit. _

_ I can’t wait to make everything I’ve worked for useless, Lysithea. And I’m not even being a tiny bit sarcastic about that. I can’t wait to make it all useless, and then curl up somewhere in the sun, and sleep for about five years or something. _

But once the pieces slide together, the countermeasure is apparent. It _ is _ a foreign agent, or rather, inhuman blood. Nabatean. Warped with dark magic, of course, to amplify its effect at the cost of longevity a cleaner sample might have provided. It’s fairly easy to devise a method, once they understand just _ what _ the Agarthan’s did, to purify and remove it.

She will be the test case for Edelgard once again.

Only this time, she accepts the role willingly.

***

Edelgard spends most of the subsequent month in the hospital, at her side. It is so nice to not be alone.

They do not lock her in a room, tie her down, anything of the sort. Instead, Linhardt hovers with the patient care of a man who feels like he owes her something.

She owes it to him, maybe, to give him a chance. She did try to kill him, after all.

Others visit, when she’s in a good mood. Mercedes makes an appearance after several days, to offer her own assistance, because there’s another man, there, too.

Edelgard tells her, in gentle, apologetic tones, of what happened to the boy from Hrym. How they took him from his second broken home, used him to see how many crests the body could hold before the mind buckled beneath them, kept him as a tool, because he remembered nothing other than the death and the strength he was steeped in half the time.

The limit was two, apparently. 

She wants to blame him for everything - for living, when she mourned him, for dragging her family into it all, for wandering through Garreg Mach like a mindless husk, like a ghost she didn’t even know haunted her - yet she cannot. 

All of them bled on that table for the sins of their forebears. 

And he still has a sister.

***

He lies there in the bed down the way, Emile.

Sometimes, when Linhardt has to rest, when Mercedes steps out to eat, when Edelgard needs to go rule a continent, it’s just the two of them, there.

_ Do you remember me at all? _

_ I… I remember a house. I remember a little. I remember the way the sun shone through the trees, that summer. _

_ The trees are gone. I’m sorry. I let the Agarthans blow them up. _

_ Oh. _

_ I did it to kill the man who did this to us. _

_ Don’t be sorry, then. _

_ *** _

_ Thank you for saving me at Garreg Mach. _

_ That was you? _

_ Who did you think it was? _

_ I thought, maybe, I was seeing things again. You looked like somebody I thought I knew, once. _

***

On the eleventh of Guardian Moon, the Emperor makes a speech.

She appears before the gathered crowds of Enbarr to speak on the subject of peace.

Peace, she argues, cannot truly be possible for a nation, nor a continent, until it has grappled with the complicated and often uncomfortable truths that lie in a fraught past.

She speaks of the Insurrection of the Seven, of the coup led by Former Prime Minister Aegir and Lord Arundel, but backed by others, equally complicit, and the horrors to which it led. She exposes the whole charade to the people. The remainder of the Seven are to be tried for their complicity in the following events, under a popular jury.

The populace is not spared the gruesome details. After all, as she points out, many of them too fell victim to similar cruelties. Those who’d stalked the shadows of the halls of the world had taken far more from them than from her - more blood, more family members, more dignity.

Crests are no divine gift from a benevolent goddess. They are merely bloody tools of war, stolen blood, unwillingly taken, unwillingly given. And thus, she admits, she has cast off her crests for the sake of what she believes.

Edelgard delivers the speech passionately, with nonetheless an infectious solemnity that catches amongst the audience, to Lysithea’s pride. 

She does so with soft brown hair.

Lysithea grins, twirling a strand of her own between her fingers.

She’d almost forgotten what lilac looked like.

***

_ Dearest Lysithea, _

_ It would be my absolute pleasure. _

_ Lots of Love, _

_ Absolutely Not Claude Von Riegan, Who Definitely Died in Derdriu, I don’t know what you’re talking about _

***

He picked _ just _ the perfect spot for this. 

There’s a small mountain village, not too far from the southern shore that his mother used to sneak over to visit who knows how many years back, when she was hopping on over the border. The locals are nice, sweet folks - one of the women has a couple young daughters who are shaping up to be pretty fine fighters, all things considered, and there was this excellent guy who used to live up there (or at least his mother claims, he’d never met the man himself) who’d make these _ fantastic _ little pastries. They’re down a bakery, though, these days.

It’s a pretty sleepy place, well - for Almyra at least - but it really isn’t too hard to pull some strings, get a couple things set up in advance.

Count Ordelia, it turns out, _ does _ want to be there. He writes a couple of old mercenary friends, asks them if they wouldn’t mind escorting a couple of elderly folks out to visit him. For a retirement trip, obviously. Can’t have a certain someone leafing through his mail, if they’re in Enbarr.

Funny to think that soon, the heir to every former country within newly unified Fodlan will reunite on a cliffside beach in Almyra, every single one of them having thrown away the title.

But really, it’s not about that. This is a favor for one friend, and a repayment on a debt to another, with a little interest sprinkled in.

Hey, how could he not? 

He did make a promise.

And she did save his life.

***

Edelgard von Hresvelg and Lysithea von Ordelia leave Enbarr, Adrestia, Fodlan, in the capable hands of the people. 

After devoting several years to instituting the economic, social and educational reforms outlined over the course of Edelgard’s rule as Emperor, with the assistance of Prime Minister von Aegir, Edelgard abdicated her crown in favor of the newly-instituted meritocratic system. They could have stayed, should they have desired to remain, but House Ordelia is full of painful memories, and the Palace at Enbarr is being refurbished, soon to be transformed into a sprawling university campus.

They’re pulling up all the rotting foundation, beneath the stonework.

But they do not leave Enbarr, do not leave Adrestia, do not leave Fodlan without a trace of their presence. There are the marks they’ve left on their friends’ lives, undoubtedly - the touching moments in peacetime and blows taken during battle, the countless cups of tea and the small gestures of kindness, the mailed lilies and the bloodstained brass knuckles, a childhood pieced back together from broken bits of memories.

In Fhirdiad.

In Ordelia.

There are also more visible reminders of their presence - the childhood portrait of Edelgard that still sits in Hubert’s office, even now. The painting of Lysithea that will soon decorate the university’s front entrance.

The twin monuments, each carved from translucent, bleached marble, stand firm in the city of Enbarr, in the village at the formerly disputed border between Ordelia and Hyrm. A circle of sixteen children stare at all who pass by. Each bears at least two crests, carved into the skin with a deep, red inlay. Some bear three.

They based the design on the notes that had been found and descriptions from surviving family. Thirty two of the ghosts, at least, will have their due.

The walls of the surrounding garden bear a list of every name they’d managed to uncover, by word of mouth, by following up on leads, by connecting the dots between the unlucky (or lucky) few who’d had their case memorialized. A plaque at the center summarizes the war of unification, the war in the shadows, the atrocities committed for years in the dark before either.

“_Wh__en you ask my blessing, I’ll kneel down and ask of you forgiveness. So we’ll live, and pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh.” _

But when the pair of them leave behind Fodlan, when they leave behind Enbarr and Adrestia and the old phantoms and still-living friends dwelling within, they do not follow their loved ones into an early grave.

Instead, they journey west, under the dark cover of night, hand in hand.

In a cliffside beach town, in southern Almyra, there is a strange and joyful affair one day. A royal brat officiates a wedding between a couple of commoners he knew from school, who set up shop.

The two of them fade comfortably into history in relative obscurity, not as the Flame Emperor and Wisdom of the Empire, though of course, some far away still speak of them as such, but as Lysithea, the baker with a mind that runs a thousand miles a minute, and El, her happy wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, yeehaw, this was originally going to be a one-shot that just spiraled out of complete control into this monstrosity. I just... really love Lysithea, I'm so glad she and Edelgard have a paired ending. As someone else with a degenerative chronic illness, I was pleasantly surprised with her writing (though the bar was quite low)
> 
> (Press F to pay respect to my Jeritza triple whammy crest theory, may it be memorialized in this fic for all time.)
> 
> Also thanks for your patience to everyone who is waiting for me to post the DS3 epilogue, when I was writing this bastard instead.
> 
> Edit 5.24.20 - Painting commission by @itsbabypears on twitter. The level of detail they put into this is incredible, and it makes me so so happy to see the end of this fic brought to (visual) life.


End file.
